


Cigarette Teeth

by hisokun



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, College AU, Heavy Angst, M/M, artist!Hisoka, lawstudent!Illumi, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-02-14 21:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 148,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2203782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisokun/pseuds/hisokun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hisoka is an art student driven by his own interests in painting; but with his remarkable talent of Van Gogh, even his art teacher recognises his potential. Illumi is a freshman pre-law student, his entire being controlled and subdued by his family; as the next heir to his family's well-known law firm, he carries the burden of their expectations. Enticed by Hisoka's freedom, Illumi agrees to be his friend. But Hisoka never thought that one man could bring so much pain.</p><p>Sequel: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5559976</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathe Me

Chapter One

 

September 2013

 

 

_A staggering hand grapples over the gun. The hard muscles of his arms begin to roll unsteadily, the pulse of his veins throbbing at his wrists. His fingers are trembling as he rolls the handle over in his palms. Beads of sweat pore over the smooth curve of his forehead. For one moment, he thinks of “him” in all his manifestations: five, with the gentle hands of a boy; ten, growing; age fifteen, gleaming with intricate dexterity._

_He lifts the gun to his head, his hands shaking as he feels the earth quiver under the weight of him. He slips his index finger into the round hole, where the trigger is waiting._

_“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I love you.”_

_And then, there is a shot._

 

~ *** ~

 

The smoke rises up to meet the sun, greeting the other in a gray palette before dissolving completely. The handrails jiggle as Hisoka leans against it, the rusty metal nearly breaking under the sheer weight of his arms. He puts the cigarette to his lips, inhaling a sharp breath. Then, he draws away, keeping the smoke in his throat for a second before breathing it all out.

He can still taste the bitterness of it, his mouth feeling like an overused ashtray. He purses his lips together, lazily eyeing the streets below. He had woken up an hour ago, in the hopes of eating something remarkably decent before leaving for school. Unfortunately, once his eyes settled on his half-finished cigarette pack, anything related to breakfast had dissipated.

Now, his stomach is absolutely growling.

Hisoka moans loudly, placing a hand over his stomach. A loud sound exits his mouth, like a wail of a dying animal. He knocks his head on the railings, shifting the angle so that he can look at the other side. Despite the cemented walls, he can hear his neighbor – Machi – producing a groan. He faintly hears _“Shut up, Hisoka”_ from the other side. A smile edges his lips.

He sighs, dropping the cigarette on the floor, and then he tramples it with the heels of his boot. He watches until the ashes left behind are carried away by the wind, or slipping down the gaps of the metallic floorboards. There’s something oddly comforting in seeing something so powerful becoming weak. He goes back inside, grabbing his coat and backpack. He pulls the keys from the hanger before closing the door behind him.

“Hey, Machi,” Hisoka calls out, knocking on the door. He glances at the tiny-glassed hole on the door, checking for any sign of the pink-haired bombshell. “I’m – ”

Machi opens the door before he can finish his sentence. She glares at him for a moment, like she’s contemplating whether she should punch him in the face. From the irking smile on Hisoka’s mouth, her fist actually has a valid reason to do so. Then again, so does her lips.

She shoves a homemade pack of sandwiches on his chest. Hisoka blinks at her, lifting the sealed Ziploc to his eye level. She huffs out. “Next time,” she says displeasingly. “Actually _cook_ something for breakfast. I can hear your moans all the way across the hall.”

“Well, you sure like that, don’t you?” Hisoka chuckles, pinning Machi by the shoulders. He dips his head down to give the young woman a small and teasing kiss on top of her head. “Thank you for the meal.”

He releases her before her arm can swing at his face. He trots away, opening the Ziploc. He takes a bite of the turkey sandwich, his tongue rolling in appreciation as he swallows the piece down. He’d have to properly thank Machi one of these days; her meals are especially delicious. “This is really good,” he calls out.

He disappears down the end of the corridor, but not before he notices the blush on Machi’s cheeks.

 

~ *** ~

 

As far as she can tell, Hisoka has never made his own breakfast. At least, not when she’s cooking. While she mixes the batter on the bowl, a sudden realization occurs to her. _Maybe_ , Machi thinks, _the reason why he never cooks is because I always do it for him_. She tries not to break the bowl into two with her bare hands. She doesn’t want to waste the perfect mix. Machi sets the bowl to rest on the counter and wipes her hand clean.

Two years ago, she’d offered Hisoka the chance to stay with her in her apartment. If she had been given the choice, she wouldn’t even talk to him. She and Hisoka weren’t exactly on good terms, compared to now, at least. But a friend of theirs had asked Machi to take care of him, even if the others had been totally against it. But like the others, they could never refuse.

Weeks after he’d moved in, she immediately regretted it. The thing about Hisoka is that he’s a walking canvas – literally. Anything he gets his hands on is an utter mess, and it’s actually the beautiful kind. There are times when she hates it. She just doesn’t want to live with a guy who can’t clean up after.

But there are also times – though, she’d never dare to admit – when Machi is absolutely in awe with Hisoka’s work. His hands are a series of movements, brushes so light that sometimes, she feels like she’s staring at a painting itself. Honestly – again, she’d never tell this to anyone – Hisoka is very good looking.

He moves like a predator searching for his next piece of meat, a thunderstorm stuck in a man’s body, with not enough electrical surges to pull through.

Machi sets the stove at a high temperature, the heat getting to her face. She pours a little bit of batter into the pan, watching the pancake mix form into an uneven circle.

Then again, predators are also preys.

 

~ *** ~

 

The usual time Hisoka takes when going to the University is half an hour. And even on casual occasions, he uses the train. But there’s just one thing he hates when riding it: he can’t smoke. Whenever he gets on, he has to bite down the urge to light up a cigarette. His fingers are always shaking, like the muscles of his arms are dreading the lack of nicotine. And right now, he’s doing the only thing he can to stop it – art.

There’s also one thing he loves about riding the train: he loves the view. He doesn’t live that far from the city, but somehow, the train tracks connect to the lower mountains, which give Hisoka a pleasant taste of sunlight. The shadows of the mountain pass like a phoenix on the glassed windows, golden rays dancing on the floors. Hisoka catches a glimpse with his foot, and he almost imagines himself burning up.

One of his legs is dangling carelessly on his other thigh, balancing the notebook on his lap. Besides him, there are three more people inside. A businessman is reading a newspaper. An old lady is drowsing off beside the entryway. And a young woman is listening to music, her head bobbing up and down. Hisoka finds her interesting; her features are different, slightly off. Unique, if he may.

He starts sketching the face, his hand following the thin lines of her nose. He draws her as best as he can in thirty minutes, her eyes a vacant shade of black. When he glances up to look at her again, she’s looking directly at him. The golden hue of his eyes lock hers in a frenzy, and before long, she hides herself again in the mess of her brown locks. Hisoka smiles to himself. He finally has the eyes correct.

The driver of the train calls out the next stop. Hisoka closes his notebook, pulling out a silver sharpie from his pocket. He twists around to jot something down on the soft fabric of the seat.

The train stops at the station, and Hisoka lifts his bag over his shoulders. He rips the page off his notebook, passing it along to the girl, whose wide doe eyes are curiously glowing under the fluorescent lights. “You’re pretty,” Hisoka comments, waiting for a reaction. When he doesn’t get any, he pouts at her, and then walks over to the entrance.

Before he exits, the girl splutters out, cheeks red, “You are, too!”

Hisoka smirks at her, hopping off. “Thanks.”

_It’s beautiful, you know? On the way to town. Kind of like your favorite watermelon sherbet._

 

~ *** ~

 

Van Gogh never did cut off his ear on purpose. Everyone knows who Van Gogh is – the famous and tortured artist who had painted _Starry Night, The Mulberry Tree, The Night Café, Les Alyscamps,_ and even _Pieta_. Somehow, the story of his slashed ear actually made him more famous. But he didn’t cut off his ear; his friend did – Paul Gauguin – during a heated fight. At least, that’s what two German historians are saying.

Hisoka’s passion started when he heard the story about Van Gogh. The ear grabbed his attention. But the paintings grasped his soul. After his sudden epiphany of his life’s utter purpose, his hands were driven; his veins were practically throbbing the first time he held the brush. And for once in his life, he actually felt like he belonged somewhere.

After all, everyone is a tortured artist.

“You know,” Machi says, setting her tray on the stone table, sitting on the other side. Hisoka leans back, his eyes wide as Machi pushes over a plate of lasagna on his empty tray. “I’ve gotta wonder why you’re always so alone these days.”

Hisoka raises both eyebrows, smiling as Machi pushes a spoon into her mouth.

When he doesn’t reply, she continues. “I mean, are you putting on a front or something? Some kind of brooding look? Because I don’t know, Hisoka, if this is your way of getting girls, then I am not impressed.”

Hisoka is quiet for a moment, letting the thought sink in. He taps the tip of his pencil on the drawing pad, the sun soaking the edges of his skin. The University cafeteria is brimming with college students. Hisoka has been sitting here for an hour now, letting the bright and scorching rays of the sun pass over him like a wave. If the sun were an ocean, he would love to drown in it. Maybe then, he wouldn’t feel like burning himself anymore than he should.

“Well,” he finally says, pushing the plate back to her corner. He leans forward, inclining his head in the other direction. “If this is your way of proving your point, I’m pretty sure those guys would have no problem with killing me.”

Machi chews slowly, glancing at the group of men sitting at a nearby table. By _those guys_ , Hisoka means the troupe – the previous group he’d been “friends” with, back when everything was a lot simpler. Phinks, a sharp man with even broader shoulders, is glaring at him, his lack of eyebrows glinting under the lasting heat. Feitan, a tiny fellow with a knack of getting devoured by shadows, is at his side. And of course, Nobunaga, Machi’s ever loyal companion. There are others, but unfortunately, these are the only ones at the moment.

Hisoka knows that his presence is never welcomed near anyone in the troupe, but now that he’s practically a housemate of Machi, they have no other choice. It doesn’t mean that they’re going to let him off easy, though. Hisoka smirks; he has no problem with that. The more enemies he has, the better. Life is boring when it’s not complicated.

“Oh, you’d love that,” Machi drawls, dragging the plate back.

A soft sigh exits his mouth, the corners of his lips itching in irritation. Grumbling, Hisoka grabs the fork and stabs a piece of lasagna, shoving it into his mouth. He forces himself to chew. “I would.” Hisoka nods, wiggling an eyebrow. “I haven’t had any decent fights these days.” He stretches his arms in front of him, cracking the tension beneath his muscles.

Phinks snickers. “I wouldn’t want to break those little hands of yours, Hisoka.”

“Good thing they’re the only ones that are tiny.”

The laughter dies down, replaced by the shrill of Hisoka’s smirk. He returns his attention to the lasagna, feeling a lot better with eating. He laughs to himself. He swallows another piece, looking at Machi. He sees the question behind her eyes: _are you okay?_

He clears his throat. “Look. You don’t have to take care of me, Machi.” He pauses, grinning. “Unless you offer sexual favors, then I am totally up for it.”

Machi rolls her eyes, but under the heat, Hisoka sees flecks of pink brushing her cheeks. “Please, Hisoka. I don’t sleep with men who can’t take care of themselves.”

“Machi,” Hisoka laughs, shaking his head, “you don’t sleep with _anyone_.”

To his surprise, she stares up at him through her eyelashes, her eyes glinting with secrets. “Oh, no, Hisoka. I just don’t sleep with _you_.”

A startled laugh escapes his throat. Machi begins to leave, but a smirk is spreading over her lips. When she’s a few steps away, Hisoka calls out. “I’ll see you later at the apartment.”

Machi hums in reply.

Hisoka doesn’t have to glance up to know that she’s not looking back. He drags a gold sharpie across the table, the sunlight sweating it off the stone. _The only thing you’re making her do is letting us suffer._

 

~ *** ~

 

In all his years of being an art teacher at a highly acclaimed University, Professor Wing can distinguish the artist and the _artist._ He has students who go in class with a paintbrush, do their work in utter resignation, and leave with colors on their fingertips. But then, there are people – students with so much talent grazing their fingertips – who are paintings themselves, palettes in the embodiment of humans, who attend class as artist, and never as students.

And never in his academic life has he met anyone like Hisoka.

The young man is a fine work of art himself; his fingers are light with the feather caress of an angel. His hands are usually blemished with different colors, as if he’d made his own body a canvas. Hisoka usually comes to class early, works a little on his painting, and leaves about ten minutes before the time. But, despite what his other teachers are saying, Hisoka never arrives late.

However, Wing is still awfully surprised when he finds the door to the art room open, with Hisoka already working on his surrealism project.

The professor walks over to the table, placing his things on top. He watches Hisoka look at the canvas with easy concentration, his body poised carelessly on the stool. He licks his lips, thinking, before settling his paintbrush back on the painting. Wing stays seated behind the desk, not bothering to greet his first student. Why should he? Hisoka never pays him any attention.

Even during class lectures, Hisoka stays asleep. Or he spends his time sketching on his notepad. Often times, Wing doesn’t mind. After all, with a talent like his, who needs to listen? But Wing wonders how Hisoka still manages to keep track with his homework if he never bothers to pay attention.

Wing clasps his hands over his stomach, observing him.

“Good morning, Professor,” Hisoka greets, his voice oddly formal. “Are you just going to watch me paint while we’re here?”

To Wing’s surprise, Hisoka is smiling. But of course, his hands don’t stray from the canvas, as if it knows perfectly where it belongs.

“I didn’t know you were paying attention to your surroundings.”

“I’m painting. I’m not deaf.”

Wing supposes he should comment for Hisoka’s sarcasm, but he doesn’t. Solely because he’s too busy checking out the new improvement of Hisoka’s project. He stands behind Hisoka, trying not to breathe hard behind his shoulders. Wing had asked for a surrealism painting, and when he first saw the others’ works, he was impressed.

But still, nothing can surmount the growing fascination he has of Hisoka’s masterpiece.

There is a giant skull in the middle, painted with a mixture of black and blue and gray, mixing together; it looks like the color of smoke and ashes. The empty plots of its eyes are dripping with black, but it’s obvious that Hisoka hasn’t finished yet. The skull is floating, the spine gone and no longer attached to the head. A serpentine tongue is unleashed from its unhinged jaws, dripping with bloody orange.

And at the center of its forehead is a purple cross, the points spread out until it reaches its temple.

“It seems that you like it,” Hisoka says, smirking playfully.

Wing hums in agreement, but his mind is long gone. _Like it_ , Wing thinks, _I love it. But what exactly is it?_

 

~ *** ~

 

Hisoka contemplates whether he should go inside. Technically, he _should_. And since he’s already here, it doesn’t even matter. Surprisingly, he’s half an hour too early, and his hands are still brushed with oil paint. He wipes his hands on a napkin before turning the knob over.

Sadly, he’s been taking the same sociology class for two years now, so most of his classmates are actually freshmen. The professor has been giving him a hard time ever since, occasionally forcing Hisoka to go to the board. It’s not that he can’t pass; he just doesn’t have enough motivation to actually _attend_ the class.

Hisoka steps inside, his eyes glazing over the empty seats until he sees the only spot taken – near the middle of the aisle, a young man is seated properly, his long black hair tied in a neat ponytail. Hisoka runs over his features, taking in the sharp slope of his nose, the perfect line of his mouth, and the soft texture of his skin. Hisoka heads over to sit at the back row, where he’s less likely to be seen.

Naturally, he takes out his drawing pad, his eyes never leaving the man in front of him.

At the corner of the table, a silver line is jotted down.

_If eyes were vacant, I’d be drowning in an empty shell._


	2. Red Sky

Chapter Two

 

September 2013

 

 

If there’s a way to hold music, Illumi would have discovered that ages ago. There’s something oddly comforting in handling an instrument, like the shells of his ears are expanding themselves into an ocean, until they’re big enough to carry the waves. Maybe if his hands were larger, he can scoop up a taste until he’s had his fill. Or maybe that’s just how addicting music is – no matter how hard you try to get away, it always ends up drowning you even further.

And that is why his hands are moving over the piano keys, his slender fingers running over the smooth texture of the objects. Illumi likes to think that his hands were especially made for this purpose, to let his bones dance to the rhythm of whatever beat he wants to play, to let his bones quiver at the sound of a melody. If other people’s purpose were to write, to make art, his is to make music.

Illumi taps a key, making the sound echo around the room.

He sits on the bench, closing his eyes when his fingers settle on the keyboards. Before long, his fingers start to move, one by one until they’re spontaneously following a tune, until his bones are rediscovering music. He has the tones recorded in his head; he no longer needs a music sheet to know what he’s playing.

Most times, he composes his own songs, listening to the music in his head until he’s had it all organized. But sometimes, he listens to other people’s music – classical artists who have been haunting the stage for ages. People who have made the piano a symphony of a dead man’s soul. And maybe, that is exactly why Illumi feels like his bones are emotionally invested in getting broken, over and over again.

“Illumi!” a voice shrieks in the hallway. “Illumi!”

The man glances up, opening his eyes. He sees the shifting of light through the heavy drapes; the beams flowing over the rich texture of the piano until it’s tilting madly like a sunrise. He stares at it for a moment, letting the afternoon sun sink into the thin bones of his fingers. He smiles a little as the golden hue of the sun begins to form heavier.

“Illumi!” His mother. He remembers now. He’s supposed to attend the meeting to take down notes, something that he’s done for quite some time. Something he’s still trying to get used to. He covers the keyboards, and then pulls the blanket over the piano. He walks over to the curtains, pushing the drapes to the center until the sun has completely disappeared from vision.

“Coming, mother,” Illumi whispers, though he knows fully well that the ever wonderful Kikyo Zoldyck can’t hear him. It doesn’t matter, anyway; she’ll still have to wait. After all, he’s the only one left in this family who can still handle her demands. He closes the door behind, locking it as he steps outside.

For some reason, he can’t erase the feeling that the sun looks oddly familiar these days. Probably just the time.

 

~ *** ~

 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Hisoka’s hand is fumbling the paintbrush when he hears Machi enter. Normally, he greets the woman with a smile, simply just to irritate her. But his eyes are too focused on what’s in front of him. He brushes some paint on his fingertips, testing out the colors. The wall is emblazoned with different hues of oil paint, spreading out like a feather as it reaches the end of the room. The floors are disarrayed with various kinds of oilcans, the newspapers cluttered underneath the tins.

The man turns to Machi, his eyes wild. Machi, to put it mildly, is definitely pissed at him. Her lips are pursed into a thin disapproving line, and her eyes are glinting with mild anger as she glances back at the painted wall. Well, no one ever told him not to mess with his room. This is _his_ apartment, after all. And since he’s paying for it, might as well do whatever he wants with it.

“Machi,” Hisoka breathes, spreading his arms riotously. “What do you think? I think it looks beautiful, in my opinion, but the colors are all _wrong_. Like, there’s something missing, you know? Something I can’t explain. And it’s driving me _crazy_.”

He covers his face in his hands for dramatic effect, and he realizes too late that drops of paints are still hanging on to his fingertips. He looks up at Machi, knowing fully well that his face is adorned in yellow paint. If he were any less handsome, he might even look ridiculous.

The woman walks over to him and gives him a slap on the face. “I’ll tell you what’s _wrong_ ,” she spits, and then gestures over to the bright wall. “ _That_ is what’s wrong. _That_ is what’s driving me crazy. Do you . . .” She rests her forehead on tips of her fingers, releasing a heavy sigh. She shakes her head, and her face scrunches up in utter frustration, as if she’s about to cry.

His head snapped to the side when Machi’s hand came in contact with his face, but he only chuckles to himself. Hisoka hides the grin by biting on his lower lip. “Do I what?”

Machi explodes, spreading her arms wide. “Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done? The owner of this apartment is going to freak out when he sees this! Your room isn’t a canvas, Hisoka. You can’t keep on decorating it like a painting . . . And will you _please_ wear something, at least?”

As if just realizing it, his eyes widen when he looks down to find himself only in his boxers. His bare chest is also covered in oil paintings, green and blue and yellow mixing together in one heavy brush. His shorts are also stained. For a second there, he almost catches Machi looking at his nude abdomen before fixing her gaze on the wall.

“Like what you see, Machi? You don’t have to complain about it, you know.”

Machi smiles at him faintly. “Oh, not at all, Hisoka. In fact, your narcissistic personality continues to amaze me.”

“You secretly love it.” 

Sometimes, she can be so stubborn, and that irritates him. That makes him think that the girl can’t have a little fun.

But with a staggering sigh, Hisoka frowns at the floorboards.

“Look, Machi. You don’t have to be worried about me. I can take care of myself. I told you, didn’t I? If you offer sexual favors – ”

Machi cuts him off with an impartial glare. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for _him_.”

Something catches at the back of his throat, and he unconsciously drops his paintbrush on the floor, making it roll toward the empty tin can. He runs a hand through his red hair, pulling it upward in testiness, ignoring the fact that he’ll have a hard time washing it later on. A sigh escapes from his mouth as he closes his eyes. He’s hoping that Machi can’t hear the heavy breathing of his heart in the room. He’s hoping that it doesn’t echo. He’s hoping that it doesn’t seem like it’s crying.

But almost as fast as it happened, the pain is gone, pushed at back of his bones.

A smile settles on his face. “I can do something to change that . . .”

“If you’re planning on seducing me looking like that, I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”

“Last time I checked, you had a big crush on me.”

Before Machi can reply, someone trots into the room. A girl is carrying Hisoka’s blanket, draping it on her bare shoulders. Her brown hair is wildly pointing in different directions, and her lips look numb and overused. Her pale skin glistens under the dim fluorescent lights. She looks over at Hisoka, her eyes wide and glassy. “I thought we were going to take a shower . . .”

It takes Hisoka a moment to remember her name. She’s the girl he has seen yesterday on the train, the same girl he’s drawn and given his number to. His mind has been too preoccupied with his painting that he completely forget there was anyone else in the room.

“I . . . I’ll be there in a second,” Hisoka replies.

The girl glances at Machi for a second, hiding her shy eyes behind the knots of her hair. Then, she returns inside, the blanket trailing behind her.

“A shower, huh?” Machi says drily, lifting an eyebrow.

Hisoka smirks at her. “You jealous?”

“Not at all,” she snaps, gritting her teeth. “Have fun, Hisoka. Though, I feel sorry for your new girlfriend.”

Hisoka walks toward his bedroom door, preparing to close it. “It’s okay, Machi. I’ll make time for you. Maybe even have some fun shower sex, eh?”

He closes the door before he hears Machi’s bloodcurdling scream from the other side.

 

~ *** ~

 

“You look terrible.”

“So do you.”

Needles to say, once Illumi checks his appearance in the mirror, he _does_ look kind of off. His hair isn’t perfectly combed back; maybe he should tie it. It would a lot easier. Additionally, it won’t attract that much attention. But he’s sure that his brother – Milluki – isn’t talking about his hair. There are dark circles under his eyes, looking like crescent black holes whenever he opens them. He always opens them.

He brushes his hair back with his fingers and ties them to perfection. Then, he heaves the strap of his bag over his shoulders, checking his appearance one last time before walking out of the family bathroom. Ironically, the family bathroom is almost never used, unless completely necessary, or if they just feel like it. Hence, the full shampoo bottles lining the counter, still untouched.

“At least,” Milluki huffs, trying to keep up with his brother’s stride, “I don’t look like I worked overnight.”

Illumi glances at him, looks at the protruding belly of his younger brother. He focuses instead on the corridor. “That’s because you eat. Junk food, no less. Hasn’t mother told you to stop eating so much? Or, at least, eat something healthy.”

“But I’m not you, Illumi. I don’t need to keep my figure. Unlike _you_.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but he knows that Milluki is right. Their father has never been particular about Milluki’s weight; basically, he lets the boy do whatever he wants as long as he can keep his high grades. That resulted to a bloating belly by the end of fifth grade. But even with all the nutrients filling his stomach, he still manages to keep his grades in tact.

Meanwhile, Illumi is off following their mother’s orders, carrying a clipboard wherever he goes. Sticky notes taped to his corkboard. Papers peaked the edges of his desk. His feet swollen and bruised by the time the day has ended. But if he wants to keep his status at the Zoldyck heir, he needs to keep his life in check. Which means that he should be organized, the perfect son his father and mother has always wanted.

“Master Illumi,” Gotoh greets, cupping a folder in his palms. He takes a bow before pushing the folder toward the eldest son. “Your mother has told me to give you this.”

Illumi takes the folder, opening it to see another pile of papers to stack on his desk. He checks the due dates, nearly blanching when he sees the numbers. “Thank you,” he says firmly, his blood boiling by the time he exits the mansion.

Milluki follows him inside the car, grinning. “Mother is killing you, ever so softly.”

Illumi ignores him, pushing the folder in his bag. When the driver leads them outside the mansion, Illumi looks out the window. The sky isn’t any different today, but he’s still mildly recalling the heat of yesterday’s afternoon sun.

 _She’s not the only one_.

 

~ *** ~

 

“What are you looking at?”

Hisoka and Machi are sitting on one of the tables in the open cafeteria. It’s looking cloudy, but the sun is still passing through, making the heat almost unbearable. Hisoka’s hands are sweating every time he holds a pen, and when he tried to draw someone from a table away, the pen slipped out of his grasp. Now, he’s wiping his palms on the fabric of his jeans, grinning at Machi when she squints at him in disgust. He’s not the only one who’s disgusted. If there were a fan right now, he probably would have hogged it.

Machi doesn’t look away. “Not what, _who_.”

“Fine.” Hisoka tries to draw a neat line to compliment the wavy strands of hair. He’s sketching a girl from three tables away; her face is neat and circular, and her blonde bangs are etching her forehead. She looks around before finally settling on his face. Hisoka smirks at her, following her features as fast as he can without looking at the paper. She smiles shyly before looking away again. “Who?”

“That guy.”

“Which guy?”

“You’re not even looking.”

Hisoka rolls his eyes and finally glances up. There are a lot of guys in the cafeteria, cluttered around the busy sidewalks, walking in different groups. But none of them are catching his attention. Sometimes, Hisoka has to wonder whether Machi actually has an idea what aesthetically pleasing is about. Despite his ignorance, sometimes, he hears Machi making out with another guy in her room. Not that he’s surprised; Machi is very good looking. Beautiful, if he actually admits it. But if he paints Machi’s features, he’ll easily get bored because there isn’t much to look at.

And as an artist, he needs something – or someone – to have a sundry kind of presence, something that will hook him even after the painting is finished.

“Did you seem him yet?”

Hisoka squints at the crowd, trying to find some guy who stands out. Then, his eyes settle on a black haired man, his eyes pure black and empty as he studies something on the table. His face is a smooth curve, complemented with a widow’s peak. His long black hair is tied neatly at the back, a loose strand hanging over his forehead. Hisoka unconsciously stares at him.

He flips his pen over and over in his fingers, his mouth slightly agape. “Huh. Is that him?”

“Yeah.” Machi grins. “He’s cute, isn’t he?”

“You should go talk to him,” Hisoka suggests, nudging her by the elbow.

She scowls. “Are you crazy? He’s cute, but he’s not approachable. You can literally feel his aura. It’s like he’s saying: I don’t want to talk to you, go away.”

Hisoka raises an eyebrow, laughing. “ _No_. You’re just scared that he won’t talk to you. Never pegged you for a chicken before, Machi.”

She glares at him over her eyelashes. “Well, why don’t you try?”

Before he can think it through, he’s already standing up. “I will.” He leaves his pen and notebook behind as he starts to walk toward the young male. Machi’s gaze is burning the back of his neck; as if the heat of the sun isn’t already enough. His sketch is going to melt under the heat at this rate, and he’s going to have to start over again.

By the time he’s close enough to get a better look, he realizes with a slight jolt that the man Machi has been ogling over is the same person he saw yesterday in his sociology class. He hesitates for a second before striding with confidence. He slips inside the chair next to the male. “Hey.”

The man glances up, his expression completely neutral. “Do I know you?”

Hisoka smirks. “We have the same sociology class. I’m Hisoka.”

“Hisoka,” he says, as if he’s rolling the name on his tongue. “You’re the one who always gets in trouble, correct?”

He smiles slightly at the formal tone. “Yeah. I guess I’m pretty famous for that. What’s your name?” He scoots over, propping his elbow over the table, and resting his head on his palm. “You’re a first year, right?”

“Yes . . .” He says, unsure. He tilts his head to the side, bringing the paper closer to the edge of the table. “Why should I tell you my name?”

“You don’t have to, but I’m curious. Hey, what is that?”

Hisoka grabs the paper away from him before the man can say anything else. But the man snatches it back, shooting a glare in Hisoka’s direction.

“None of your business,” he says firmly.

 _Oh, wow. Okay, then_. “Okay.” Hisoka nods. “But can I at least know your name? Because my friend over there thinks you’re cute. Maybe I can even hook you up with a gorgeous girl.”

He hesitates. “I’m not interested in girls.”

Hisoka almost chokes on his own saliva. “Okay. So. You’re not interested in girls. What about guys, then?”

“I’m not interested in anyone.”

Hisoka lifts both of his eyebrows, trying to hide his surprise. But the man looks serious, like he’s being interviewed for a job. His back is straight, and his lips are formed in a half frown. But what really grabs Hisoka’s attention is the blankness of his eyes, as if he’s waiting for someone to fill it.

“Hmm,” Hisoka hums. “Are you smiling?”

The man widens his eyes. “No," he says testily, "but may I ask why you even care?”

Hisoka ignores his snarky remark. “It’s cute. You should smile more often.” He leans further against the table, until his chest touches the hard stone. He taps his fingers on the paper in front of him, but this time, the man doesn’t pull away.

“If I tell you my name, will you leave me in peace?”

“Probably not, but you can try.”

The corners of his mouth twitch into an annoyed frown. He inhales deeply, exhaling the frustration growing evident on his features. “Illumi. Illumi Zoldyck.”

Something – maybe victory – flutters inside Hisoka’s chest. He pushes out a hand, urging Illumi to shake them. “Nice to meet you, Illumi Zoldyck.”

 

~ *** ~

 

Once his mother is finished telling him all the details, Illumi presses the end button, putting his phone back in his pocket. He’s on his way to the hotel, where the meeting is taking place. Kikyo Zoldyck is already waiting for him inside the room.

The afternoon sun is at its peak, riding high over the horizon as Illumi watches the vibrant hue of the beams flash over the city. Illumi closes his eyes, his fingers straining to keep them from shaking. Because of the meeting, Illumi is taken away from his piano – the only time of the day he can actually play.

He moves his fingers on his lap, imagining a tune inside his head. Upon hearing a perfect note, his breath hitches. When he opens his eyes, the orange light is dancing on his fingers, following the melody he’s been playing.

Even until now, the sun is different. Everything right now seems different.

But he doesn’t know why.

 

 


	3. In My Place

Chapter Three

 

September 2013

 

 

“I’ve always wondered why you smoke.”

Machi is sitting on the other side of the table, her nose wrinkling in distaste every time Hisoka exhales another wave of smoke. They’re sitting in one of the cafeterias near the university museum. Machi has chosen this place because it wasn’t too crowded, and the possibilities of Hisoka getting distracted are slim to none. Unfortunately, being near the museum is doing wonders to his imagination. Add the fact that Machi absolutely refuses to let him wander in, and Hisoka can no longer resist the urge to sketch.

His hand is scrawling over the page, his mind running off inside the imaginary museum in his head. He can feel Machi scowl at him, and a smile edges his lips before he finally looks up. She should have known that this will happen – you can’t tame a painter’s hand, after all. Hisoka takes a long drag of his cigarette, puffing out the smoke from the small circle of his lips. “It’s nice.”

“Nice,” Machi repeats. “It smells foul, like someone is continuously farting.”

Hisoka rolls his eyes at her, grinning. “I didn’t say it _smelled_ nice. It smells like shit, to be honest. But it’s _nice_. You know, like alcohol. I know you always get drunk when you’re out.”

“I do not!”

Hisoka scoffs, biting the edge of his cigarette before tossing it at the floor, stepping on it with the heels of his shoes. “Right. I do recall Phinks calling me up in the middle of the night to tell me that you’d fainted in the middle of drinking. Now, tell me, why do _you_ drink?”

Machi immediately opens her mouth. “It’s ni – ” she stops short, frowning. “I just like it.”

Hisoka clicks his tongue, pointing his pen right in Machi’s face. “And there you have it, folks.”

Hisoka rubs his tongue over the shapes of his teeth, the smoke residue still stuck on his taste buds. Cigarette is bitter, sour – it’s like inhaling smoke from a fire, but through a bunt. But it’s oddly relaxing. Hisoka always feels something lighten up in his chest whenever he smokes, like his bones are finally settling on another weight. Hisoka knows that Machi feels the same way about drinking. The only ironic fact about this is that they both started on different addictions – at the same time.

“Okay,” Machi sighs. “So, tell me. Why do you draw?”

He glances up, smiling. He pulls out another cigarette from his pack, turning on the lighter when he tucks the cigarette in between his lips. He puts the lighter away and avoids Machi’s scrutinizing glare. He inhales a wad of smoke, feeling his chest lighten again, but the question looms over him. He draws the cigarette away from his teeth.

“Because,” he says, pretending to concentrate on something else, “it’s the only thing I can do without screwing up.”

 

~ *** ~

 

Hisoka has never been this desperate for a candy bar before.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, still trying to pull his hand away. But all he’s doing is making the machine move farther and farther from the wall. The back of his hand is getting swollen from being dragged around for fifteen minutes. And he swears, even his cuticles are being ripped apart from the inside. His back is numb and tired from bending for too long, so when he finally slumps on the floor in utter defeat, he releases a long sigh.

Fifteen long minutes ago, he had wanted to buy a candy bar from the machine half an hour before class. His teeth were practically waiting to be sweetened, and he’s never been the type to say no to his urges. But with his awful luck, the candy bar he had bought couldn’t slip through the vent. So he pushed his hand through in an attempt to loosen up the door. When he tried to put his hand out, he roughly scratched the surface of his skin.

“Shit,” he says again, his annoyance getting the best of him.

He can list every humiliating thing he’s ever done, but nothing can top this.

Technically, he can call Machi, but the girl would never let him live it down. And since he has no other friends to call – besides the girls he’s slept with over the past month – he’s going to have to wait. He blinks at the ceiling before chuckling at how ridiculous he looks. A loud laugh escapes his mouth, and his belly rumbles at the sound.

“Ah,” he says, sighing. “I’m so fucked.”

“Fucked up, more like.”

Hisoka snaps his head in surprise, his eyes following the direction where the sound came from. He smiles up at Illumi Zoldyck, staring at him steadily with his vacant eyes. He glances at Hisoka’s hand before looking back at Hisoka again. They stay like that for a while: Illumi standing nonchalantly above him, and Hisoka having no need to explain his horrible situation.

Illumi clears his throat. “What did you want so much that your hand got stuck in a vending machine?”

Hisoka rubs his jaw. “A candy bar.”

“Ah . . . I see.”

“Yes.”

Honestly, Hisoka doesn’t know what else to say. The situation is awkward. With Hisoka crouched on the floor, and Illumi standing above him, it can only get worse. “So,” Hisoka says, smiling, “mind if you help me out a little?”

He can sense Illumi hesitating a little, the man’s eyebrows drawn together in contemplation. Then, the man bends down, gently pulling Hisoka’s hand from the vending machine. Hisoka tries not to jolt at the sudden contact. Illumi’s long and slender fingers are altering the position of Hisoka’s hand. Hisoka licks his lips, his skin nearly shivering from Illumi’s cold palms. But it’s oddly comforting – most probably because he’s finally, thank God, getting his hand out.

That candy bar can go back to where it came from, for all Hisoka cares.

Illumi blinks at the pink and rigid marks left on Hisoka’s skin before adjusting his hand’s position.

“Ah!” Hisoka exclaims when he feels his hand roughly graze the thin metallic covering. “Easy there, my skin isn’t exactly invincible.”

“Sorry,” Illumi mutters, but Hisoka can hear the smile in his voice.

Then, he gracefully pulls out Hisoka’s fingers, nodding in accomplishment. “Better not get stuck in any more vending machines.”

Hisoka stretches his fingers, rubbing the back of his hand gently. There are pinkish thick lines decorating the small patch of his skin, and he can see his veins protruding over the texture. He beams up at Illumi. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

The man takes a step back, his eyes unsure. “It’s okay.”

A cluttering sound falls inside the vending machine, and Hisoka peeks in to see his candy bar smiling mockingly at him. He purses his lips, but he grabs the candy bar from the machine, careful not to touch the edges. He takes it back; he wants the candy bar more than he should.

“Help me up?” Hisoka pushes his arm forward, wiggling his fingers together to grab Illumi’s attention. Illumi slowly offers a hand, their fingers clasping together, their palms joining as Illumi lifts Hisoka up from the floor. He immediately lets go after Hisoka settles himself on his feet, and he hides his hands behind his back. Hisoka glances at him from the corner of his eye. Illumi always looks like he’s about to say something, like he’s been keeping his mouth shut for a while, and he can no longer contain the words burning in his throat. But he shuts them down before they can even dissipate.

Hisoka rips the wrapper, taking a bite. He offers it to Illumi. “You want one?”

“No . . . What is that?”

“Snickers.”

“Your hand got stuck because of Snickers?”

Hisoka blinks at the half-eaten Snickers before nodding. “It’s good. You should try it. You like chocolate, don’t you?”

Illumi draws back in surprise. “Yes. I do. But I’d have to reject your offer.”

“Sociology,” Hisoka says suddenly. “We should go together.”

Illumi’s face darkens. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“You . . .” Illumi bites his lower lip, searching for the right word. “I don’t make friends.”

Hisoka lifts both eyebrows slowly, nodding with a suppressed smile. “You don’t make friends,” he repeats. “Okay. Then, I’m not your friend.” He wraps an arm around Illumi’s shoulders before the man can say otherwise. “I’m your buddy.”

 

~ *** ~

 

The Zoldyck firm has been carrying on the business for over forty years. Their success had been immediate. The number of clients they got over the year went over two hundred, nearing the five hundred streak. Their lawyers were – and still are – incomparable. Their passion for defending the legally weak is astounding, and so, the amount of prosecutors who transferred from other legal agencies bounced with ease.

But, of course, there’s still someone missing.

Silva Zoldyck’s job is to take care of the complicated legal cases – such as, first-degree murder, rape, and the like. Unfortunately, he can only handle one case at a time, if he wants to win. If he’s too busy with the case and can no longer accept any other legal complaints, he hands the issue to one of the lawyers in the upper ground. However, even if his trust for the legal firm is stable, he still feels like something – or someone – is missing.

And that is why he so desperately wants Illumi to graduate as fast as possible.

His son has the capacity to bring forth the firm’s legacy, and with his insurmountable talent in terms of debate and spotting the factual discrepancies, Silva knows that Illumi will be the next best thing.

“Sir,” his secretary says, “Madame Kikyo is on the phone.”

Silva nods his thanks and picks up the receiver. “Yes.”

“I need Illumi free for tonight.”

The man closes his eyes, letting the words sink into him before replying. “And why so?” He presses his eyebrows together, resting his fingers on his forehead. “I thought we agreed that he’ll be coming with me to the conference. Illumi had already bought a ticket.”

He can feel his wife rolling her eyes. “Well, yes,” she huffs, “but this is more important. If he comes with me to the meeting, he’s going to meet people with connections. Illumi needs it, and you know that.”

Here is what Silva knows: if Silva allows Illumi to be dragged once again by his mother to a meeting he doesn’t give a slightest damn about, Illumi is going to lose another part of him that he’s still trying to grab. As a lawyer, individualism is important. The judge is never going to believe his stand if he, himself, is hesitant about his ideals. Silva swallows the lump in his throat.

He nods, even though Kikyo can’t see him. “Okay.”

And his wife turns off the call. Even if Silva has had the last say, he still feels like he has lost.

 

~ *** ~

 

Technically, “friends” and “buddies” are the same, but Illumi doesn’t bother to correct him. He knows that the young man will only pester him until he agrees. Hisoka seems to have a different kind of aura, like he’s asking to be noticed without saying anything. There are times when Illumi unconsciously looks in Hisoka’s direction, especially when the man is being tortured by the professor’s questions. Fortunately, it seems that Illumi isn’t the only one who’s drawn to his presence. He’s seen more girls look at him than necessary.

“Can you give me a little space?” Illumi asks, eyeing the tiny gap between their legs.

Hisoka looks at him for a moment before scooting over – but only an inch or two. “Do I make you uncomfortable?” Hisoka grins, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“No.” Illumi clears his throat.

“You’re lying. It’s not like I’m going to hurt you. I’m a pretty harmless man.”

Getting hurt isn’t exactly Illumi’s biggest problem. He can defend himself well, but the fact that Hisoka is getting too close for comfort is making his skin shiver. Illumi can hear the settling beating of Hisoka’s heart, can feel the rise and fall of his chest whenever he breathes, and it feels like it’s getting louder in his eardrums. It almost sounds like music. Illumi pushes the thought away and drags himself a little farther away from Hisoka. “I know.”

“Okay,” Hisoka allows. “But why are you running away from me?”

“I’m not running. I’m sitting.” Illumi purses his lips, hearing how stupid he sounded through his own ears. But Hisoka’s presence is making him fidget in his seat. Any minute now, and it’s like Hisoka will hop on his bandwagon and evade Illumi’s personal space. Illumi clenches his hands into fists, ignoring Hisoka’s aggravating smile. It’s almost tempting to slap a hand on Hisoka’s mouth, just to erase his everlasting grin.

Hisoka chuckles. “I see that. But that’s not what I meant . . . I really am making you uncomfortable, huh?”

“You’re not,” Illumi says firmly. “I just don’t make friends.”

“Why not?” Hisoka laughs, but the question lingers like a ghost in Illumi’s head.

Illumi pretends not to hear, but the sound of Hisoka’s voice is still thumping in his ears. _Why don’t I make friends?_ The answer is simple, and yet so complicated: Illumi is not allowed to make friends. His mother has always told him that he only needs acquaintances, people who can help him in the business, but he can’t form bonds with people. They will only make him weak and vulnerable, and as the next heir, he needs his bones to be as thick as steel.

“Fuck.”

Hisoka is staring at his phone, mouth wide open and his eyes showcasing an emotion of disbelief. Then, almost as if it’s natural, Hisoka laughs out loud, clutching his phone tightly as he slams his head on the table. He comes up for air, his face as red as his hair. “Did,” he breathes, “you know that there’s no sociology class today?”

Illumi blinks. “What?”

The man pushes his phone in Illumi’s direction. _Good morning. Class is cancelled for today. Sorry for the disturbance, and enjoy your day._ Once Illumi is finished reading, Hisoka puts his phone back in his pocket. He hoists his backpack over his shoulder and starts to walk down the aisle, not bothering to check whether Illumi is following him.

Illumi places his hands on his lap. His hands are still clenched tight in utter resignation when Hisoka turns to look back at him. Hisoka’s hand is already at the door.

“What are you waiting for?” Hisoka asks, tilting his head.

“Excuse me?”

Hisoka shakes his head, smirking. “Come on, there’s no class. I’m treating you to Snickers.”

Illumi bites the insides of his cheek, but Hisoka doesn’t look like he’s going to back down. Illumi stands up, bringing his bag with him. And Hisoka waits for his arrival at the door before opening it.

Hisoka licks his lips, the corners of his mouth stitched into a smug smile. “So, what other chocolates do you like?”

 

~ *** ~

 

“Why do you always hang out with him, anyway?”

Machi, Phinks, Feitan, and the other members of their troupe are huddled together under the large umbrella, settling themselves comfortably on the stools. This is the one of the only times they’re together; with their busy schedules, and Machi’s constant excuses of hanging out with Hisoka, these moments are rare. Now, Phinks is targeting her for questions, which Machi isn’t really up to answering.

“Why do you care?” Machi snaps, turning away. She can feel a burning sensation creeping up her neck, and she fans herself, pretending that the weather is getting too hot.

Phinks rolls his eyes. “It’s like everything you do is with him now. I thought you hated that asshole.”

She does. She despises the thought that she’s living near Hisoka, that the man is always getting into trouble, that nothing anyone ever does is hurting him. She hates that she has to take care of his puny little ass because he doesn’t have enough “energy” to cook. She hates that his artistic ability is always making her speechless. And she hates that he’s constantly in the back of her mind, no matter how hard she tries to forget him.

As if he’s being summoned, Machi hears her phone ring. She unlocks it to find a picture message from Hisoka himself. She adjusts her position, so that no one will see.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Feitan snickers. “Better snag the bastard before someone else does.”

Machi ignores the following laughter, her heart thumping loudly inside her chest. It feels like her bones are constricting her heart, making it stumble roughly on her stomach. On the screen is a picture of Hisoka, his bright eyes dimming the sun behind him, and the person next to him is the man Machi had pointed yesterday, the man Hisoka had talked to.

 _Guess who I’m with,_ the text says _, you’re right. He is cute_.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Machi says softly. _But he has never been anyone else’s._

 

~ *** ~

 

“You like to draw.”

“I love it.”

Hisoka and Illumi are sitting near the vending machine. On the table are small packs of Snickers, the chocolate inside melting under the sheer heat of the sun. Hisoka takes another bite of his piece as Illumi grabs another pack. Finally, Hisoka has met someone who shares the same desire as he does. Machi is so inclined on her figure that she almost always rejects Hisoka when he offers her chocolate.

Illumi swallows the chocolate before speaking. “What do you usually draw?”

“Anything,” Hisoka says, licking the top of his teeth. “People, mostly. Things that catch my attention. Anything I consider beautiful is art to me.”

The man thinks for a second. “Even trash? Broken buildings?”

Hisoka nods. “Anything.”

“Can you draw me?”

Hisoka smirks up at him, finishing his sketch with an easy line. “Are you saying that you’re beautiful?”

Illumi’s eyes widen in shock, and he immediately shakes his head. “No, that’s not what – ”

“I’m kidding.” Hisoka laughs. “I already did, actually. Would you like to see it?”

Illumi gives a tiny nod, so Hisoka hands him his notebook, flipping to the page where he had drawn a careless sketch.

Hisoka watches Illumi stare at the drawing, unable to figure out his expression. It’s hard, because Illumi’s eyes are completely empty, the darkest shade of onyx. Hisoka takes out his silver sharpie, scribbling a sentence on his side of the table when Illumi isn’t looking.

_I don’t remember the shape of your eyes, anymore. And that scares me._

 


	4. Come Talk To Me

Chapter Four

 

September 2013

 

 

The last time Machi slept peacefully, she was in middle school. That was before the introduction of booze, crazy parties, and of course, hot and insignificant sex. Then, she was met Phinks and the co., and she was beginning to realize just how crazy and perfect those parties were. The kind of all-nighters she couldn’t remember afterwards, where she was still drunk off her ass the next morning, and she couldn’t recall whether she was having sex with the wrong guy.

But that was before she went to college. Now, she keeps her alcohol consumption at a tolerable level, while her friends are out getting drunk off of cheap beer. But she still can’t lessen the temptation of one-night stands. Then again, the thought of stopping her little escapades isn’t all that alluring, not when Hisoka can’t keep his prized possession in check. Which is why her growing frustration is stumbling down the pit of her stomach.

Machi throws the pillow on the other side of the bed, giving up. She’s tried putting on earmuffs. She’s tried blocking the sound with her own pillow. And she’s tried doing both. Unfortunately, nothing seems to work. The walls are still banging, the sounds echoing across the room. Machi kicks the covers away from her, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

She glares at the wall, like that one look is going to stop. Whatever Hisoka is doing must be really important if he has the nerve to keep her up this early in the morning. She glances at the clock – two a.m. She doesn’t think Hisoka is going to stop soon.

Machi shrugs on her robe and heads out the door, slamming it behind her. She doesn’t bother to knock – Hisoka will never hear it. She bursts in his apartment, forcing the door to clang against the wall. Hisoka’s room is dark, nothing but the light of the moon coursing through the windows. She squints her eyes as she tries to find him. She follows the sound ringing across the room, and finally, she sees his shadow.

She flicks the switch, and the lights turn on, forcing her to look away. The moment her eyes settle on the wall, she releases a curdling scream. There are eyes all over the room. All of them look different, with a variety of colors shadowing the lines. Some of the eyes look crazy. One of them has a hazy color of black around the pupils, while others are simple. She notices the one similarity between all of them: the eyes are shaded in dark colors. She walks to the center of the room, inspecting the walls. A shiver runs down her arms. Every single eye is looking at her; it’s getting harder to concentrate.

Every corner is covered in paint. It seems as if Hisoka has been trying to find out which eye looks better, but then she sees a familiar looking one right in the middle. It’s almond shaped, and the colors are dark. There is a tiny smidge of purple at the corner of the iris, but Machi doesn’t miss it. A sharp pain crosses her chest, and she puts a hand over it. But it doesn’t stop. It just keeps on growing, like a vine curling around her bone.

Hisoka is laying spread out on the floor. His shirt is wet with sweat and paint. He’s wearing boxers, with socks on. His hair is pointing in different directions. His chest is heaving up and down as he tries to catch his breath. He catches her eye and grins lazily. Machi doesn’t smile back. This is the first time she’s seen Hisoka so disheveled that it startles her. She fights the blush showing on her cheeks.

She puts a hand on her waist. “May I know why you’re painting . . . those?”

Hisoka starts to prop himself up on his elbows, and he straightens his back. His eyes are downcast. “I wanted to remember what his eyes look like.”

Machi frowns at him disapprovingly. She purses her lips. “And so, you painted it on the walls?” Her voice is high-pitched in disbelief. She opens her mouth to continue, but finds her throat sucked clean of breath. She sighs. “Could you be anymore stupid?” she whispers, following his gaze.

“Maybe,” Hisoka allows, nodding faintly. He looks up at her, smiling, but Machi can tell that his mouth is straining to hold it. “It looks good, though, doesn’t it? It looks perfect.”

 _Perfect_ , Machi thinks. _When was the last time he’s ever been perfect?_

But Hisoka is right. His eyes are painted perfectly – the colors are dark yet vibrant, the shadows under his eyes are cleanly shaded, and the obscure hue of his pupils are brushed in precision. Machi has never seen anything more accurate. She’s met people who had tried to draw his portrait before, but they always come up short. The colors were wrong, the lines looked shaggy, and the general sadness in his being was gone.

Machi simply looks away, unable to respond. “You should go to sleep,” she says, instead.

Hisoka smiles slightly and slumps back on the ground. The golden shade of his eyes is dim under the fluorescent lights. If he were proud of his newest masterpiece just a second ago, now he looks absolutely empty. Machi bites her lower lip, the sadness creeping into her chest. She doesn’t understand; how can a man like him – who has absolutely nothing to be proud of, except for his brilliant talent in art – make something so beautiful, and still manage to destroy himself?

“I’m going to stay up,” he replies. “I’m not tired.”

 _Like hell, you’re not._ But Machi nods and takes a seat next to him on the floor. Hisoka raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. “You have to clean this up tomorrow. Or the owner will flip.”

“Better appreciate it while I can, then.” Hisoka grins.

Deep down, she’s glad that Hisoka made a mess of his room. For the past few weeks, she’s been trying to imagine _him_ , every nook and curve of his being, everything that she’s trying hard not to forget. But it’s getting harder, especially because he’s never been one for taking pictures. Now, a small portion of him is finally clear. So, when Machi closes her eyes, his face is vividly taking shape.

When Machi opens her eyes, Hisoka is already passed out on the floor. His chest is rising slowly, and his mouth is slightly open. She reaches out to fumble with his hair, but she retrieves her hand before it can settle on his skin.

 

~ *** ~

 

Phinks always spends his time drinking, and he isn’t even going to be modest on that one. Feitan was the person who made him addicted to it. The guy is frequently out on weekends, and more often on weekdays, which is kind of ironic if he thinks about it. What Phinks is worried about, though, is that drinking can bloat his stomach, so he has to take extra push ups to maintain his built.

Then again, Machi did ask him, “And what _built_ do you need to maintain?”

And that kind of hurt his ego. He lifts the beer bottle to his lips and takes a tiny sip, like that can actually nurture his urge to drain the whole bottle. It doesn’t.

Beside him, Feitan is slumped back against the couch, lazily staring at the television screen. On the floor is Shalnark, who’s hogging the chips and mustard. He pops another in his mouth, smiling contentedly as the television flashes one of their favorite shows. On the other side of the couch, Nobunaga is steadily collecting beer bottles, as he chugs down another one. He glances at Phinks for a moment, and immediately pretends to concentrate on what’s showing.

Their nights used to be complete, but only until a certain girl decided to bail on them. Machi used to join them whenever they wanted to drink, which used to be a Friday night schedule. But then, she started to stop coming, and they all had an idea why: Hisoka. Phinks brings the bottle to his mouth, and unable to contain himself, he drains it all down.

Even after years of knowing the guy, he still can’t figure out why Machi is so drawn to him. Hisoka doesn’t know how to take care of himself, or maybe he just doesn’t want to. He’s been repeating the same sociology class for three semesters. Phinks doesn’t think Hisoka can even cook. And maybe Phinks doesn’t, either, but at least, he’s not asking Machi to cook for him.

Phinks blinks, putting a bottle down on the armrest. “Does Hisoka ask Machi to cook for him?”

Shalnark glances at him, sincerely thinking. “He doesn’t, I don’t think.”

“Why, Phinks?” Feitan smirks. “You jealous?”

He starts to heat up, and covers them with a glare. “No. I’m just curious. Aren’t _you?_ I mean, the guy gets a decent breakfast – everyday! Last I checked, his appetite composed of cigarettes.”

Feitan shrugs. “Who knows? And who cares? Machi can do whatever the hell she wants.”

She can, but if her heart gets broken in the process, then that’s something Phinks won’t allow. _He_ won’t like it, either, even if he _were_ close with Hisoka before. Even if Machi won’t admit it, it’s obvious that her feelings for the bastard aren’t that only of a friend’s. Unfortunately, she’s too stubborn to ever accept it, and even if she will, Hisoka will never reciprocate it.

“I wonder what they’re doing now,” Shalnark mutters.

Feitan chuckles. “Probably having sex on the floor. Am I right, Nobunaga?”

Nobunaga glances up and scowls. “I don’t fucking care, Feitan.”

The rest of them laugh. Phinks pops open another bottle, and takes a long gulp.

Because unlike the rest of them, Hisoka has never been good at taking care of anyone, not even himself.

 

~ *** ~

 

The meeting takes place a thousand meters above the ground. From this angle, Kikyo Zoldyck can clearly see the sight below. City lights are dancing, forcing the stars to hollow back into the darkness. Lights are blinking repeatedly, the colors red, blue, and yellow merging together into a vibrant painting. The plane is steadily flying straight in the sky. Kikyo tugs her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

She watches wings of the plane shake slightly, and wonder if they will fall. But Kikyo has always loved the idea of someone else tumbling down.

She’s wearing an expensive blue cardigan, and her usual black Armani dress. She wraps it tighter around herself as she proceeds to the meeting room, Illumi following her lead. She looks back and finds herself staring at her son. Illumi is the eldest son in the family, Milluki the second. Unfortunately, while Milluki has good intentions, his capabilities are not enough to run the company. Illumi, on the other hand, is exceptionally talented at what he does.

However, Silva doesn’t completely agree. Kikyo has been fighting him about it, ever since they decided to choose Illumi as the next heir – again. Silva thinks that Illumi doesn’t know what to stand for, and as a lawyer, he should be able to feel in his heart what he really believes. Both Kikyo and Silva graduated in a prestigious law school, but they have different ways in winning, and different ways in doing everything else.

“Illumi,” she calls, “you are to meet a very important client of mine. If you impress him, you might be able to have more contacts. Understood?”

“Yes, mother.” His voice is monotonous, but Kikyo knows that he understands.

He always does.

Kikyo pushes the door open, and smiles in appreciation. The room is well lit, the chandeliers above giving off a nice and calm vibe. Tables are lined up, with attractive food piled on the plates. And even better, the room has a fantastic view of the night sky, the clear windows showing off what’s outside.

Clients and people in other law firms greet them in awe. She doesn’t remember most of them, not unless they have something to contribute to Illumi’s future and the firm’s success. “Good evening, everyone. Thank you for inviting us.”

“Thank you for coming,” a man says. Kikyo knows him as the president of one of the leading law firms in the country. Kikyo glances at Illumi, a message passing between them. He shakes Kikyo’s hand and gestures to Illumi. “Is this Killua-kun? The next heir?”

Beside her, Illumi flinches. He licks his lips, but stays composed.

“No. This is Illumi. _He’s_ the next heir.”

The man flushes, taking Illumi’s hand and shaking it slowly. “Oh, I am deeply sorry for the mistake. Nice to meet you, Illumi-kun.”

Illumi nods and takes a short bow. “Thank you for the invitation. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Kikyo smiles approvingly, inclining her head at the president. “Illumi here is taking pre-law in one of the top schools in the country. Not to mention that he’s on an academic scholarship. Silva is happy to hand over the firm once our son graduates.”

The president grins back. “Oh, yes, that would be amazing, indeed. I’m sure he will bring lots of clients. Speaking of,” he clears his throat, waving his hand to the room, “shall we meet one of them?”

“Yes, thank you.” Kikyo gestures Illumi to come follow her. The night is coming to a good start, and with enough determination, Illumi may be able to get more than three contacts for his future. But something is nagging the back of her mind. When the president leads them to a middle-aged woman, Kikyo’s head is dazed. She stares at Illumi – at the fine and well-proportioned curve of his features, the long black hair, and the pale skin. He looks handsome, but his eyes are an empty shade of onyx, devoid of any emotion.

 _Oh_ , _if only you hadn’t grown up_ , Kikyo thinks before she pushes her glasses upward, unable to look at Illumi for the rest of the night.

 

~ *** ~

 

This vending machine is shit.

That’s all Hisoka can say when he pushes the button for the nth time in the last three minutes. He’s been trying to buy the strawberry fizz for a while now, but it seems that the vending machine won’t allow him. And Hisoka isn’t going to walk to the other building just to buy himself a strawberry fizz. He licks his dry lips as he nearly slams his fist against the button.

“Fucking – ”

“Did your hand get stuck again?”

Hisoka whips around to find Illumi looking at him, his mouth kept in a thin line, but his eyes are glinting, as if all the emotions are there. He can’t help but laugh at the situation. Last time, they hung out because Hisoka’s hand got stuck in the same vending machine. If it were another person, Hisoka wouldn’t be that embarrassed. However, Illumi seems so cool and collected that Hisoka can’t help but feel humiliated.

He still laughs at himself, either way. At least, now his hand isn’t stuck in the same vending machine.

“No,” Hisoka says. He nods at the button. “I can’t get my soda.”

“Oh.” Illumi walks over and pushes the button. Hisoka steps aside, watching him. They wait for a few seconds before the can clutters in the half oval shape. Illumi grabs it and hands it over to Hisoka, who’s deeply convinced that the vending machine just doesn’t like him. “You just need to press it again and wait. If you press it repeatedly, the can may get stuck. Like your hand.”

“Right,” Hisoka says, too engrossed in the soda (thank God) in his hands to concentrate on anything else. He pulls the tab open and brings it to his lips, closing his eyes as the sweet liquid trickles down his throat. He presses his lips together in contentment. “Ah, that was good.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pushes the can toward Illumi. “Would you like some?”

“No, thank you.”

“Let me buy you something as thanks.”

Before Illumi can say no, Hisoka is already inserting a coin in the slot. He gently presses a button, and a can of cold chocolate comes out. He grabs it from the curve and gives it to Illumi. “Thank you for your help. Again.”

Illumi hesitantly accepts it. “It’s no problem. And thank you.”

“Do you still have class?”

He shakes his head.

“Come over at my apartment, sometime. You have my number, right?”

Illumi’s face darkens again, and Hisoka feels himself being pushed away. “Yes, I do. But I don’t think I have time to come over.”

“At least, try. I don’t mind if you take weeks or months.” Hisoka flashes him a small wink. “You’re worth the wait.”

Illumi blinks up at him, but doesn’t say anything. He fiddles with his own can. Hisoka can tell that he’s not comfortable, or maybe the man is just too closed up to notice. He’s been texting Illumi the past weekend, but the man was simply giving him short or informative answers. No smileys, and with perfect punctuation and grammar. Sometimes, Hisoka thinks he’s talking to a businessman.

Looking at him now, there isn’t much difference.

Hisoka takes another long drink. He puts a hand inside his pocket. “Okay, so you’re not coming over. At least have lunch with me.”

Illumi closes his eyes, frowning. Then, he opens his mouth.

 

~ *** ~

 

“You said no.”

“Yes.”

“But why?” Milluki asks in disbelief. His older brother has been a loner for years, and that’s probably because their parents are handing all the weight over to him. Milluki is given the freedom Illumi doesn’t have, which makes him wonder why Illumi is rejecting the only liberty he has. Whoever this pink-haired guy is must be an idiot, and a good one.

Because Illumi actually looks kind of disappointed. Well, as disappointed as he _can_ look.

“I have a meeting,” Illumi says. “And you know that mother is going to be angry if she finds out.”

“ _If_ ,” Milluki points out. “ _If_ she finds out.”

“She will. You know she will.”

“So?” Milluki scoffs. “It’s not like she can do anything about it. You like hanging out with him, don’t you?”

Illumi doesn’t react, just keeps staring ahead as the driver leads them back. “Does it matter?”

“With you?” Milluki raises an eyebrow. “Of course it does.”

His brother doesn’t say anything after all, but he notices Illumi staring out the window, his gaze transfixed directly at the sun.

 

 


	5. Wisconsin

Chapter Five

 

September 2013

 

 

“It’s freezing,” Hisoka mutters, wrapping the coat tightly around his body.

Starting last week, the weather has suddenly turned cold, like an invisible blizzard has taken over the city. Hisoka has been shivering in his sleep, until he can longer take the cold pressure reaching his skin. He finally turned on the heater after what seemed like years, and he huddled himself under the heat of his comforter. He thought his toe could have been sliced off from the frostbite. But luckily, it’s still in tact. What he hates most about the weather is the fact that he needs extra clothing every time he goes outside.

He’s been wearing sweaters for weeks now. Underneath his coat is a thick woolen shirt, reaching the shape of his wrists and neck. He tugs the scarf tightly around his neck and resists the urge to shiver.

On the bright side, dry leaves are starting to fall. Streets are decorated with brown and orange leaves, blending together in a mixture of a dull and bright color. The sky is also turning mellow, the kind of color Hisoka associates with home. It’s a good reason to paint. But his hands need to be covered in gloves, because they can never handle the bare weather. He’s going to die from hypothermia at this point, and he doesn’t think Machi will agree to keep him warm.

Hisoka steps on another crunchy leaf. “You’re wearing too little.”

The woman beside him is dressed in a thin coat. She’s wearing short shorts, with leggings underneath, and a pair of camel boots. Machi eyes him, drawing her eyebrows together. “And you’re wearing too much. Hisoka, it’s not even winter yet.”

“It feels like it,” Hisoka huffs. He glances around the street, watching as the sweepers clean the dry leaves circulating the area. “Where are we going again?”

“The coffee shop,” Machi replies, heaving a sigh. “I need something to drink.”

“But why a coffee shop?”

“Because,” Machi sighs, “I need some _real_ coffee. And the coffee smells good here this time, I promise.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Hisoka hasn’t had any coffee in years, solely because he can’t handle the taste of it. It’s too bitter for his tongue, and he ends up brushing his teeth three times after. Not to mention that he has to gargle his mouth, just to get rid of the horrible coffee breath. He really doesn’t know how people can drink that beverage like a habit. Wouldn’t they feel much better if they drink tea, instead?

They arrive at Sol’s café after a few minutes. Machi pushes the door open, heading inside. Hisoka regrets agreeing to go with her. The moment he enters the café, his nose is violently hit with the smell of brewed coffee, and he nearly staggers back. He squints his eyes, grimacing when he walks closer. He tries to ignore the pungent smell waving dangerously close to his nose.

Maybe if they actually _sweetened_ it a little, then it wouldn’t be half as bad. Unfortunately, coffee isn’t supposed to be sweet.

“I’ll buy a coffee to go,” Machi informs. “Do you need anything?”

“Water,” Hisoka dramatically croaks out. “I need water.”

Machi looks at him drily for a few seconds, before she shakes her head. Hisoka almost laughs, but he might literally choke himself if he takes another whiff of air. He should have just waited outside. He takes a seat next to the open windows, taking out his silver sharpie. He doesn’t bother to check if anyone is looking – he doesn’t really care. He drags the sharpie on the table, forming letters and sentences.

When he’s done, he returns it to his bag, and takes out his drawing pad and pen. He observes the bustling café. Waiters are roaming around, going from one place to another with writing pads in their hands. The door opens, and a group of teenagers enter, bringing the cold air with them. On one table, a couple is holding hands, their knees touching where they think no one can see.

Then, his eyes spot a young woman sitting alone near the middle of the store. Her auburn hair is thick and fluffy. She brushes the bangs away from her face and looks longingly outside the window. Her eyes are a bright shade of blue. Her skin is slightly pale, but her cheeks are pink from the lack of heat. Hisoka finds himself unconsciously drawing out the serene lines of her face, highlighting the thinness of her mouth.

The girl suddenly catches his gaze, as if sensing him looking at her. Judging from the etches of her face on his drawing pad, his stare must have burned an invisible hole on her skin. She smiles at him slightly, her blue eyes glinting. Hisoka smirks back, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow. _Are you going to come here or what?_

Understanding his unspoken message, she begins to stand up, gathering her coat and belongings into her bag. She walks toward him, as Hisoka’s eyes trail down the smooth curves of her body. She’s a lot sexier than his previous escapades, her figure nearly similar to Machi’s. But before the woman can reach him, the door to the café swings open.

Hisoka subconsciously follows the sounds, and he finds himself surprised to see Illumi Zoldyck trotting toward the line. He contemplates shouting at the man to get his attention, but Illumi is already looking at him. The man opens his mouth, but then he hesitates. Hisoka smiles at him, tilting his head to the side. His chest is suddenly thumping, like the beating of his heart has affected his bones. He tries to ignore the feeling, but it only becomes stronger.

“Hey,” he mouths.

Illumi frowns slightly, his eyes still empty. He finally gives in and walks toward Hisoka, keeping his gaze neutral. “Good morning,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Good morning. Are you here for coffee?”

“Yes. Are you?”

Hisoka waves the question off, wincing inwardly. “Nah. I don’t drink coffee. I’m waiting for my friend over there.” He points to Machi, who is still waiting in line, a book in her hands. She glances up and turns to Hisoka, but she quickly looks away.

“I see.” Illumi’s voice sounds distant, Hisoka observes. “Will you go to class later?”

“Unfortunately.” Hisoka props his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his palm. “And I assume you’re going, as well.”

Illumi nods. “Unfortunately.”

Their conversation is cut off by a dead silence, looming over them like a dark cloud. Hisoka doesn’t say anything, but his fingers are shaking, barely holding on to the pen in his hand. He nods at the seat in front of him. “Sit down for a while.”

“No, thank you. I have to buy coffee for my mother.” He hesitates. “It’s nice seeing you.”

“Nice seeing you, too,” Hisoka murmurs.

Illumi’s eyes are downcast, looking at the rough sketch on Hisoka’s drawing pad. “Is that your girlfriend?”

“What?” Hisoka’s eyebrows are scrunched in confusion, before he realizes what Illumi meant. “No. Just some random girl.”

“It’s nice,” Illumi says. He clears his throat again. “Well, I’ll see you later, Hisoka-kun.”

The man proceeds to fall in line, barely noticeable in the crowd, but Hisoka can’t keep his eyes away. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to concentrate. He remembers the girl on the other table, but the woman is already gone. Hisoka shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. He stares down at his notebook, where her lower body is nonexistent.

 _Oh, well_ , he thinks. _It’s not like it matters_.

“So, that’s Illumi, huh?” Machi appears in front of him, placing his bottled water on the table. Hisoka turns it open and takes a sip. “You two seem close.”

“Are you jealous?” He grins. “Maybe if you actually _talked_ to him last time, then _you_ would be the one he’s friends with right now.”

“Whatever.” She scowls, clutching her coffee cup tightly. “Let’s go.”

Machi proceeds outside, Hisoka following her trail. She ignores him for a few minutes, drinking her beverage. For some reason, Hisoka feels like she’s mad. Then again, that isn’t really out of the ordinary. Ever since she was given the responsibility to look out for him, her entire demeanor turned cold. Well, towards him, anyway. She socializes with friends, but she always seems to be building up a wall whenever Hisoka is with her.

Even until now, he can’t figure out why. If she doesn’t want to take care of him, then why push herself to do something she describes as a chore? And Hisoka made it pretty clear that he’s not interested in a nanny. The last thing he needs is for a woman to scold him for every damn thing.

Suddenly, a vigorous chill enters his body, and his bones shiver. He clenches his fist. _This is all your fault_ , he spits _._

“You know,” Machi begins, “Illumi isn’t that cute to me, anymore.”

Hisoka snaps his head at her. “Oh? Because he doesn’t talk to you?”

She shrugs. “He’s just not attractive. I mean, he doesn’t have any expressions. He’s like a doll – empty and lifeless.”

“Well, I strongly disagree. You just don’t know him yet.”

Machi narrows her eyes at him. “And you do?”

“I’d like to.” Hisoka nods to himself, sensing a smile spreading over his lips before he can stop it. “I feel like there’s more to him than what he lets other people see. Like art – you can’t figure it out, unless you really devote yourself to it. Every color has a meaning, and it’s up to the view to figure out what it is. Unless it’s porn, then it has no meaning.”

“You should’ve taken literature,” Machi replies drily. She takes a sip of her coffee and throws it away in the nearest trash bin. “Your speech literally made my nose bleed.”

She saunters off, leaving him behind.

Hisoka laughs after her, but his heart is squeezing its way outside of his ribs. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling like this.

 _The coffee isn’t as bitter as when I started to love you_.

 

 

Illumi has never heard music this loud before, like a screech that’s tuning on and off before the sound escalates. That’s what it feels right now, listening to Hisoka doze off in the middle of class. Somehow, the man managed to convince him to seat together, but Hisoka doesn’t look particularly interested in his company – or anyone’s, for that matter. His head is lain on the crook of his elbow, his earphones stuck in the shell of his ears.

But the music he’s listening to is Illumi’s favorite – the famous Fur Elise by Beethoven. Even he can’t help averting his attention to the repeating music, instead of the professor in front. He tries to take down notes, while still listening. _Damn it_ , he thinks. _I shouldn’t have sat next to him._

Although, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, this is the most comfortable he’s been around someone in ages. His former seatmate makes his body rigid, his state of being uncomfortable. Every move he does makes him feel robotic, like he doesn’t already know that he’s as monotonous as someone can get. But Hisoka – the man makes his bones slightly wiggly, a little bit too flexible for his liking. If he reaches out for something, it no longer feels like he’s being controlled by a video game player.

“Mm,” Hisoka murmurs, fluttering his eyes open. His mouth is a bit pouty from his nap, and his cheek is red where he’s slept his face on. He blinks, uncertain. He smiles at Illumi, the corner of his mouth slightly turning upward. Then, he stretches his arms over his head, before lying down again. “I’ve been repeating this song for years . . .”

This time, the music is different. Debussy’s preludes are playing – still one of Illumi’s favorite piano compositions. “You listen to classical music?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“Yeah. It gives me inspiration, sometimes. Art is . . .” Hisoka scrunches his eyebrows together. “ . . . Empty when it means nothing.”

Illumi doesn’t reply, and Hisoka doesn’t elaborate. But the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it’s filled by a warm and pleasant feeling. He listens to Hisoka’s loud yet soothing music for the rest of the discussion, trying to concentrate on what the professor is saying. Soon enough, the class ends, and the students file out of the room, leaving only Hisoka and Illumi behind.

“Ah,” Hisoka says. “It’s finally over, thank God.” He stretches his arms again, dragging his shirt with him. Illumi can see the slightest patch of skin, and his eyes focus entirely on the man’s smooth v-line. Clearly, Hisoka is working out. “My butt feels like it was trampled by a truck.”

“I’m sure it would hurt more.”

Hisoka grins. “No, I think there’s something more painful than that.”

He tilts his head to the side, blinking in confusion. “I don’t get what you mean.”

Hisoka stares at him for a long time, slowly narrowing his eyes. “Someday, you will. I’m rather certain of it . . .”

Illumi gathers his belongings, standing up. “Do you have any more classes?”

“No. I’m free for the rest of the afternoon. Hey, you should come over at my apartment.”

Even after days of contemplating it, sure that Hisoka will bring up the offer again, Illumi still can’t fully decide whether he should take it up. Milluki thinks that he should, and this is the first time his brother seems keen on the idea. But he will face the wrath of his mother, if ever she finds out where he’s been. Illumi’s not sure whether the tracker still works, but his family has always been sneaky. He should know.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I’ll think about it.”

“It will be a lot easier if you just say yes, but okay. You know where I live.”

With that, Hisoka shrugs on his backpack and leaves the room.

Illumi pulls out his cellphone and checks his messages. His mother said that if they have any plans for the day, then she would inform Illumi immediately. But his inbox is empty, and his call log isn’t that different. He inserts the phone back in his pocket and pulls his bag over his shoulder. He begins to leave when he spots Hisoka’s iPod sitting on the desk. Debussy’s music is still playing, the sound loud and clear.

He hesitates. This will be the perfect opportunity for him to visit Hisoka in his apartment. Maybe the man will finally stop pestering him if he does so. But still . . .

He unlocks Hisoka’s iPod, scrolling through the songs. Hisoka has good music taste, even though he looks like a lead singer of some pop band. It would be a shame if Hisoka loses his inspiration, after all.

If Milluki can hear his thoughts right now, his younger brother would never let him forget it. He inserts the iPod in his bag and leaves.

 

 

Hisoka can’t say that he left the iPod on purpose, but it’s certainly one of his best unplanned baits. For sure, Illumi would never leave the iPod in the room; he’s too good for that. If it was Hisoka, and he doesn’t like the person sitting next to him, he wouldn’t give a damn. Hopefully, Hisoka’s judgment of the man isn’t too far off. Illumi doesn’t exactly give him a clear leverage to his personality, so he could have thrown the iPod somewhere to let Hisoka suffer. Like in the vending machine, maybe, where Hisoka will never have the chance to get it back.

He shakes the thought away.

On the way home, he stops by to buy himself another CD. He goes off to a vintage music store, just five blocks from his apartment. He enters the door, and the wind-bell rings. The cashier greets him immediately, giving him a cute smile. Hisoka proceeds to the classical music section and gathers about three new CDs before buying them. The cashier takes his money.

“Are you a musician?” she asks, her voice oozing with honey. “A pianist?”

“No.” Hisoka shakes his head, flashing the girl a charming smile. “I paint. I have no talent for music.”

The girl giggles, even though he said nothing particularly funny. “Well, I think you look rather handsome for a painter.”

Hisoka accepts the change and the brown bag. “Thank you.” He gives the girl another smile, before walking out. Looking down at his hands, he inspects his fingernails. It’s covered in yellow and blue paint, the residue not quite washed away. His palms are still the color red, and if anyone were stupid enough to think that it’s blood, Hisoka wouldn’t be surprised.

He arrives to his apartment to see Illumi waiting at the front door, hesitantly grappling on the doorknob. “Illumi,” he calls out. “You’re here.”

The man snaps his head up, trying to hide his surprise. He shows Hisoka’s iPod in his hands. “You left this in class.”

“And you went all the way here?” Hisoka bites his lower lip to hide his grin. It’s definitely not working. “I’m flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He opens Hisoka’s palm and places the iPod in his hand. He peers at Hisoka’s brown bag. “Is that a classical CD?”

Hisoka pulls out yet another Beethoven CD. “Yeah.” He cocks his head to the side. “Would you like to listen with me?”

Illumi pauses, avoiding Hisoka’s gaze. Hisoka silently urges him on. He puts his hand on Illumi’s arm, his fingers slowly running down his skin, nearly slipping his fingers in between. The man doesn’t move, but from the way he’s shifting from one foot to another, Hisoka can tell that he’s tense.

“Okay,” Illumi finally says. “But only for a little bit.”

Hisoka presses his lips together, nodding. He opens the door to his apartment, letting his face break into a splitting grin.

 


	6. Wonderland

Chapter six

 

September 2013

 

 

He asks himself why he’s here for the nth time, as Hisoka staggers awkwardly on the floor, grabbing yet another sock from the living room. Clearly, he hasn’t expected any visitors. Illumi is seated perfectly straight on the couch, crossing his legs as he watches the man throw his clothes into the hamper. He winces slightly when Hisoka nearly slides on the floor.

“Do you . . . do you need some help?”

Hisoka immediately catches his balance. He smiles sheepishly in Illumi’s direction, making the man’s heart do a little skip. He almost puts a hand to his chest, but the pain is dismissed afterwards. Weird.

“Nah, it’s fine.” Hisoka bends down to toss his boxers into the laundry basket. “I think I’m done, anyway.” He leaves the container on the floor, near the dining table and makes his way to the couch. He slumps down, breathing a heavy sigh. He looks at Illumi, his golden eyes glinting under the afternoon light. “I’m sorry my apartment’s a mess. I didn’t think that you’d actually come.”

Hisoka’s apartment is indeed very messy and unorganized. The plates are scattered on the sink, and from the looks of it, it’s probably a few days old. His coffee table is filled with smudges – some kind of oil. Illumi touches it with his finger and brings it to his face. “You do oil painting?”

“I do,” Hisoka perks up. He lifts his body slightly on the couch to make himself comfortable. “But that’s not oil. That’s charcoal.”

As Illumi scans the room, he finds paint splotches on the ground. Different kinds of colors are lining up the wooden floors. It almost looks like Hisoka did this on purpose, like everywhere he moves, everywhere he goes, he has to leave a mark. Illumi knows that Hisoka has remarkable talent based on his sketches alone, but he didn’t think that it would be _this_ incredible.

On one corner of the paint, he sees a large canvas settled firmly on the wooden stand. Paint containers are opened. Paintbrushes are lying carelessly on the floor. So, even when Hisoka’s painting, he’s not organized. His entire being is a ruffled piece of work. Illumi wipes the stain on his pants. He doesn’t think Hisoka’s habit of making a mess of things will change any time soon.

But he’s actually jealous of how liberated Hisoka is.

“You live on your own?” Illumi asks.

Hisoka is now settled comfortably on the couch, one leg curled under his thigh. “Yeah. My parents are dead. I don’t have any siblings, so I don’t really have anyone to turn to.” He shrugs. “It’s cool, though. I mean, I get to have an apartment to myself, and no one is going to scold me if I leave the bathroom door open.”

Illumi frowns, licking his lips. “I’m sorry about their death.”

“Yeah?” Hisoka raises a playful eyebrow. “Well, I’m not.”

“Oh.” Illumi swallows. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say . . . Usually, when a family member of someone he knows dies, he makes it a habit to say sorry. That’s what his mother taught him to do: to always be polite. But perhaps Hisoka is a different case. He tries to change the topic. “How do you pay for college, then? Rent, food, the likes.”

“My parents left me with a pretty decent bank account. I can support myself for another two years, at least.” Hisoka smiles at him – the kind of smile that makes Illumi’s stomach jumble up into knots. “As for food, my friend takes care of it for me. She cooks me stuff.”

“And by friend, you mean . . .?”

Hisoka glances down, furrowing his eyebrows, like he’s thinking of something. “Remember the girl I pointed to you yesterday? In the coffee shop? That’s her.”

Illumi nods. “Oh. She’s very pretty.”

“Ah, she is, isn’t she?” Hisoka chuckles, leaning back against the cushions. He clasps his hands together on his stomach. Hisoka’s shirt is suddenly hiked up, and Illumi can see a sliver of his skin. He tries not to look, but he finds himself glancing anyway. Hisoka doesn’t seem to notice. “She’s pretty stubborn, too. And she has a rough temper.” Hisoka shudders. “It’s hard to be around her, sometimes.”

That catches Illumi’s attention. “How so?”

Something in Hisoka’s eyes fades. The usual golden hue is dimmer, like a stormy cloud has passed through. His expression darkens slightly. But it disappears almost as fast it came. Hisoka heaves himself up, folding his legs under his weight. He turns to Illumi with a vibrant smile.

At this point, Illumi can’t tell whether Hisoka’s just faking it or not. He’s not sure of anything, anymore.

“Anyway,” Hisoka says, waving his hand. “Enough about boring ole me. What about you?”

Illumi’s back stiffens. He clenches his fists. “What about me?”

“You know. Your family. What are they like?”

“They’re . . .” Illumi scrunches his eyebrows, unsure of what to answer. He’s not sure if he should relay this information to Hisoka, if his mother will actually allow him to do it, if ever she’s here. _But she’s not here_ , he thinks. _At least, that’s what Milluki would say_. He draws his knees to his body, the first physical movement he’s done since he’s sat down. “They’re very strict.”

Hisoka clicks his tongue. “Ah. That’s pretty obvious.”

“Really? How?”

Hisoka shrugs in response. “You look like you’re being put on a leash. Like you’re not allowed to bark, unless you’re spoken to. Does that make sense?”

“I guess . . .” Illumi wallows his body further into a smaller ball. Milluki always told him that he needed freedom, that he needed something to paste his wings back into place. He’s never really believed his brother. After all, Milluki has been eating unhealthy snacks for years. What can those do to his brain? “I don’t really think about that.”

The man turns to him in surprise. “Really? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No. It’s okay.” _Is it really?_ Illumi shakes the thought out of his head. He grips his pants, wiggling his toes to distract himself. Maybe Hisoka’s right. Maybe his neck really is attached to a leash, and maybe he needs to break out of it. _But my mom . . . Is it really, is it really?_

His thoughts are disrupted when he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. Hisoka is already standing up, looming over him. From this angle, where the sun is directly catching the contours of his face, Illumi can’t help but stare. He hears Hisoka say something, but somehow, his mind can’t decipher it. He clears his throat. “What?”

Hisoka laughs. “I said, would you like to take a look of my paintings?”

He takes Illumi’s hand before he can even reply. Illumi’s palms are starting to become sweaty, and he nearly slips his hand away. But Hisoka keeps his grip firm. Hisoka leads him to a different room, some kind of storage area with lots of tin cans. But that’s not all – beautiful paintings are securely fastened against the wall. Illumi stops right in the middle of the room, taking it all in.

He’s been to museums before with his family, but he’s never been so entranced. There’s a painting of a man, with lightning flashing behind him. Sweat is dribbling down his forehead like beads. He’s wearing a sports uniform, but Illumi can’t tell specifically what game it is. The background is painted with smudges of gray and blue, colliding into each other to form a storm.

Illumi walks closer to look at the handwriting on the frame. Hisoka’s signature is scrawled, with the date he finished his project. “You made this six years ago,” Illumi says, baffled. “How old were you then?”

“Fifteen.”

Illumi’s breath hitches. Fifteen, and Hisoka’s already this talented. If his talent can exceed even the professional artists, then why is he still here? “You’re a protégé.”

“I guess you can say that.” Hisoka inserts his hands in his pockets as he spins around. “I’ve never called myself a genius, or even a protégé, as you deem me to be. I’m an artist.” His voice grows softer. “I think that’s already enough.”

Something inside Illumi softens. There’s a crack in the wall he’s built, with a fresh wave of sunlight passing through. For some odd reason, it highly resembles the hue of Hisoka’s eyes. Illumi tries not to shiver. He ignores the feelings and walks over to another painting.

This time, the complexity of it is different. Dark skies are looming a hooded figure. The colors are a blend of purple and blue, nearly similar to the previous painting, but not quite. The hooded figure almost looks like it’s merged with the background. Above its head is a weird pattern of a small cross. “Hey, what’s this?” Illumi asks, reaching for it.

But Hisoka tugs his shirt backward, and he ends up falling in Hisoka’s arms, his eyes widening in alarm. “Hisoka?” he questions, swallowing the pressure burning in his throat.

“Sorry.” The other grins, steadying Illumi on his feet. “I saw a spider.”

“A spider.”

Hisoka laughs. “Yeah. Anyway, it’s starting to get late. You should get going. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Illumi has a startling feeling, like Hisoka’s hiding something. But he doesn’t have the guts to ask, and he doesn’t think Hisoka will even admit it. Surely, no one will. “Right. Of course.”

He veers around and heads back to the living room. When he gets there, his phone is ringing. His mouth turns into a thin line when he sees his mother’s name on the phone. He accepts the call and puts the phone against his ear. “Mother,” he greets. “Do you need anything?”

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” Kikyo snaps. “I’ve been calling you for minutes now, and you’re not even replying to my texts. What the hell are you doing?”

Illumi doesn’t flinch. He says nothing for a few seconds, aware that Hisoka’s listening to the conversation. “I’m in the library. Studying. I’m not allowed to use my phone.”

“Really?” Kikyo replies drily. “Well, I don’t care, anymore. Just go home immediately. We have somewhere to go to.”

His mother shuts the call before Illumi can say anything more. He slowly inserts the phone back in his pocket.

“Sorry I got you into trouble,” Hisoka says. “Do you want me to walk you to the nearest train station?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m taking a cab.” He gathers his belongings into his bag, heaving it over his shoulders. He glances at Hisoka, at the easy smile on his lips, and wonders whether this is really all right, if this is what people call _friendship_. Because if it is, then . . . Does he really want to lose it? “Are we . . . What are we?”

The man lifts an eyebrow. “My, Illumi, if you want us to be something more, why don’t you actually respond to my fruitless attempts of flirting with you?”

“You’re flirting with me?”

Hisoka clicks his tongue. “Ah, so innocent and pure. Exactly my type.”

Illumi pretends to ignore his last statement, and the blatant heat spreading on his neck. “Are we friends?”

“Well, I sure damn hope so. Because it’s going to be hard to ask you out if we’re not friends, eh?”

Illumi swallows the lump in his throat. “Right. I’ll be going, then. See you tomorrow, Hisoka.” With that, he proceeds to the door, hearing Hisoka’s footsteps behind him. Right before he exits, he tries to give the man a little smile, but it’s taking a little more effort than necessary. He settles for a neutral face, instead. “We’ll hang out again . . . aren’t we?”

He leans against the doorframe, watching as Illumi makes a fool of himself. His expression is unreadable before he chuckles, poking Illumi’s cheek. “You don’t even have to ask.”

 

~***~

 

When Illumi arrives at his house, his mother is waiting by the door, stomping her foot. His face stays neutral as he bows down in respect. “I’m sorry for being late, mother.”

It took him about thirty minutes from Hisoka’s apartment. Less, if the driver had taken a shorter route. Luckily, the sun hasn’t set yet, so he knows that he’s not that late. On the other hand, his mother fully expects him to be an hour early. There’s nothing he can do about it now, but he can still feel his mother’s wrath foiling in his stomach. Had he really had fun with Hisoka so much that he forgot about his phone?

“Sorry won’t change anything,” Kikyo growls. “You know better than to avoid your responsibilities.”

“Yes, mother.”

Kikyo stays silent for a moment, like she’s not sure whether she should yell more or just let it be. Illumi stays down until Kikyo beckons him over.

“Today, we’ll be going to your father’s office.”

“Father’s office?” Illumi asks. “What will we do there?”

“You are to meet another client. That’s why we’ll be changing your clothes.”

Kikyo enters the mansion, Illumi right on her tail. He tries not to sigh when he thinks about changing. He’s more comfortable in his clothes away, even though there’s a stain on his pants. Hisoka’s apartment was homey. Even though it was messy, Illumi felt like he could just saunter in and take a nap. Here in the mansion, the walls are painted burgundy red. The carpets are adorned with intricate details. There are bland paintings everywhere, nothing compared to the rough perfection of Hisoka’s art. He watches as the sun shifts on his skin.

He turns to his mother again. “Don’t you think the sun looks different today?”

“Hmm?” Kikyo replies drily. “How so?”

“It looks . . . brighter.” Is that even the right word for it? It’s been different for weeks now. The color is lighter, glinting through the windows. It almost looks like . . .

Illumi stops short. His skin turns hot, and he has to raise his collar to hide it; from whom exactly, he’s not sure.

But he now knows why the sun looks different.

“It’s kind of like him,” he murmurs, hoping his mother doesn’t hear. Hoping that the rest of the world can’t notice.


	7. Little Talks

Chapter seven

 

September 2013

 

 

Even an idiot can notice Hisoka’s obvious feelings for Illumi Zoldyck.

He’s been acting differently lately. He’s been painting and sketching less, and texting more. Sometimes, she hears Hisoka’s loud laugh from the other room. She didn’t see or hear anyone else enter, so Hisoka must be calling someone. But Hisoka doesn’t have a lot of people in his contact list. Machi is the only person he keeps on bugging – well, in the past, at least. Now, it seems that someone else has been taking her place.

Not that it matters.

“But it does, doesn’t it?”

Machi turns her head to Phinks, who’s lighting a cigarette. She watches him take a soft inhale before resting his hand on the railings. They’re in Machi’s apartment, hanging at the balcony. Machi invited the others over for a drink, but Phinks is the only one available. It actually feels kind of awkward, just standing here like this, but it’s not like Machi has a choice. She doesn’t want the loneliness to consume her, not this time.

She sips at her beer. “What does?”

“Hisoka,” Phinks says. He exhales the puff of smoke. He slides around to lean against the metal. Machi doesn’t bother to warn him about the rust. “You’ve liked him for years now, and then, there he goes, flirting with another man. Such a harsh reward, don’t you think?”

Machi glares at him. “I’m not asking for a reward, and I don’t like him like that.”

Phinks rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. You’re so fucking obvious that it’s not even funny, anymore. Come on. Don’t tell me you’re taking care of him just because of that stupid promise.” He shakes his head in defiance, keen on getting Machi to admit. “Why do you keep on hiding it, anyway?”

It’s really no secret that Machi has had feelings for Hisoka for years now. She can’t help it; the man is charming, charismatic, the kind of guy _anyone_ would risk the chances of getting broken by. And sadly, as much as she thinks those girls (or guys) don’t stand a chance, neither does she. Even Hisoka knows that Machi has feelings for him, but he never makes a big deal out of it.

Probably because . . .

“He’s not interested,” Machi announces, shaking her head. “If he were, don’t you think he’d make a move by now?”

Phinks stares at her hard for a moment, trying to come up with a sentence. But he keeps his mouth shut and lets the silence envelop them. Machi drinks more beer, another fruitless attempt of erasing the thoughts running in her head. She hears another loud laugh from the other room – strong and hoarse.

“Yeah.” She hears Hisoka say. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble. Again. Mhm. Hey, maybe you can tell your brother about it.”

Phinks looks down at his watch with an amused smile. “Almost midnight, and he’s still talking. Don’t you guys usually bicker at this hour?”

“There really isn’t a minute when we’re not fighting.”

He just laughs and continues to listen.

“Oh,” Hisoka replies. “All right. Yeah, I’ll see you next week. Hey, before you go . . . Come by the apartment again. Just drop by anytime, I don’t care. Yeah. Okay. Deal?”

Machi hears a soft whisper, and then a beep. She turns to Phinks, who has a frown on his face. She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it does, doesn’t it?

 

~***~

 

Milluki’s room is bombarded with anime merchandise. Various anime figurines are aligned perfectly on his top shelves. Two body-sized pillows are resting on both sides of the bed, obvious drool marks staining the cotton. Posters are pasted on the walls. Anime girls in skimpy bikinis are drawn on the paper. Any otaku would be jealous of his collection. He’s had the money to pay for it. His father always gave him what he wanted as long as he continues to reciprocate – by getting high grades and maintaining the good reputation of their family.

And maybe that’s what differs Milluki from his older brother.

He’s sitting in front of his five computers, typing away a suspicious looking site when Illumi suddenly bangs through the door. Milluki snaps his attention urgently, clicking the website shut before his older brother can see what he’s doing. While Silva knows of Milluki’s constant needs for the nonexistent, he doesn’t have to know of his other hobbies . . . which includes the thick tissues rolled up on his desk.

Illumi slumps on the bed, his hair disheveled, and his eyes wild with mania. Milluki almost doesn’t recognize him.

He swings his chair in Illumi’s direction. “So, do you need me to research something or . . .? Because I kind of have, um, homework to do, and I’d appreciate it if I can do it alone.”

Illumi doesn’t seem to be listening to him. He continues to stare at the ceiling. Milluki awkward clears his throat.

He and his brother are close – almost by default. But Illumi entrusts the researching to Milluki, with a price in exchange of his bearings. Milluki relies on Illumi for everything else. Besides that, they know each other’s secrets. They’ve spent enough time with each other’s company to know what the other is feeling. Only Milluki is still clueless when it comes to Illumi’s constant change of moods. But really, who else will they talk to?

Kalluto is the youngest in the family, with the less expectations. Alluka is kept in a mental ward far from the Zoldyck estate. And Killua . . . no one really wants to talk about Killua. Not his mother, or father, and most especially not Illumi.

Finally, Illumi speaks without raising his head up. “I went to Hisoka’s apartment today,” he states, his voice soft but still free of emotions.

Milluki blinks. “Hisoka . . . the red haired dude who asked you out.”

“He didn’t ask me out. But . . . I think he wants us to be friends.” He lifts his head to meet Milluki’s gaze. “Is that weird?”

“No.” Yes. Milluki admits it: his brother isn’t exactly the one with the best social interaction. He literally scares potential partners away, despite his oddly cool looks. If anything, he’s surprised this Hisoka guy has even managed to lure Illumi in. And his brother doesn’t take his attention for granted.

What exactly is it about that Hisoka person that Illumi is attracted to?

Milluki sighs. “Well, what do _you_ want?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want anything.”

Now, Illumi is really lying. He won’t admit it, not even to himself. Illumi is smart. He’s a natural perceiver, a man who unconsciously bends people to his will. But he still refuses to be honest to himself. Everyone in the family knows that their mother is keeping Illumi’s neck tied to a hook. She drags him along for meetings, even the unimportant ones, and she places a leash around Illumi’s neck, forcing him to act like a dog. What else can be more obvious than that?

Milluki taps his fingers against his thigh. “Rebel against mom,” he suggests. “Who gives a damn? It’s not like you’re going to lose everything.”

“I always thought you were stupid,” Illumi replies, “but now, I’m positively sure.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. But let me ask you this: did you have fun today?” _Did Hisoka make you happy?_ Milluki won’t say it, but he knows that Illumi’s answer is predictable, even though his brother will dutifully keep it to himself.

Illumi blinks at the ceiling. He purses his lips. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

Silence momentarily strangles the air until Illumi hops off the bed, and exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

Milluki licks his lips, turning back to his computer. He opens the mainframe of his security set, where everything is located. This is where he does his research, looking up names of people and their reputation. Every single data about them can be found. With the right software, he can even hack the security database of other mainframes without getting caught. He’s not a Zoldyck for his fat ass, that’s for sure.

He swiftly types the name Hisoka on the search box, finding a list of people with the same identity. He narrows the search by navigating the hometowns. The list is reduced to twenty people. His eyes scan the page, finding one with the same red hair. He clicks it open and settles back to his seat in surprise.

There’s absolutely nothing on Hisoka’s data. Just his name, birthday, and hometown. Other than that, he has nothing else to use.

It’s almost like the man knows exactly how to hide, like he knows exactly how to disappear.

Milluki glances at the door, debating whether he should tell Illumi, but what can he really say? This is the first time he’s found nothing on the database. He sighs gently, blinking until the shock fades off.

“Oh, aniki, you’re in for it now.”

 

~***~

 

Their “secret” hideout is actually Feitan’s apartment. Beer bottles are clustered on the floor. The television is flashing with a channel no one is watching. The air is solemn, like someone just died. Despite the mess, Feitan and Phinks are actually the only ones there. Nobunaga is off somewhere, Shalnark is on a date, and the others have probably forgotten – or maybe they’re just too lazy to move their butts. Machi is most probably brooding, which is actually their topic for the evening.

Phinks drinks his beer. “She’s too hung up on Hisoka.”

“Girls always are,” Feitan replies. He flips the channel, finding yet another boring show. “There’s no gore tonight. What a shame.”

“If we kill Hisoka, we can get all the gore we want.”

Feitan smirks. “Jealous, Phinks? Your feelings are showing.”

Phinks scowls, even though it’s true. “I’m not jealous.” Just bitter. “Hisoka’s just a guy who can’t keep his dick in his pants.”

“Yeah, that’s probably why girls are all over him.”

“He’s a weirdo. He stays in his apartment all day and paints. His paintings are scary, too.”

Feitan nods. “Scary good.”

As much as Phinks hates the man, he has to admit: Hisoka has talent. He’s surprised the bastard isn’t famous yet, but that will only bring more cockiness to Hisoka’s head. Hisoka is a phenomenon all by himself. Sometimes, Phinks wonders what’s going on in that head of his – to come up with something like that, something so surreal yet so natural.

It pisses him off.

“Whatever. His paintings aren’t what makes him attractive.”

Feitan scoffs. “Yeah, it’s literally just him.” He suddenly shifts, so that he’s facing the taller man. “You know what?” He clangs their beers together. “If you wanted to stop being such a chicken, then why don’t you just ask Machi out? That woman practically has sex with guys who have lower IQs. I’m sure you won’t be an exception.”

Phinks stares at him hard for a moment before finishing the beer in one go. “I don’t want to have sex with her,” he says. “I don’t want a one-time thing. I don’t want to wake up in the morning and find her gone and find my dick as stiff as a rock. No, I want breakfasts and coffee and waking up next to her naked self in the morning.”

There is stunned silence, the blaring television the only source of noise. Feitan slumps back on the couch, staring wide-eyed at the television screen. He waits a few moments before he sips his drink. “You know what?” He carelessly raises the bottle. “You’re so fucking screwed, man. Not even alcohol can help you now.”

Phinks blinks at him, frowning. He looks at the wall, pursing his lips in frustration. Feitan doesn’t look at him. Then, he finally gives in and follows Feitan, resting his feet on the coffee table. He lifts his beer bottle. “Cheers to that.”


	8. Lullabies

Chapter Eight

 

September 2013

 

 

Professor Wing has had one other meticulous student in his lifetime. He remembers it clearly, the way the clouds part when the stars want to take the flame. The student was named Yuu, and his art was remarkable. That the similarity Yuu had with Hisoka – they both had inexplicable talents, hands with so much emotional dexterity, it seemed like the angels had taken their time to weave his bones.

Wing still has Yuu’s final project in the storage room.

He enters the cramped area, coughing violently when dust attacks his face and throat. He waves it away with his hands, closing his eyes. He makes his way blindly in the room, navigating through his touch. He finds the portrait after a few minutes. When he opens his eyes again, his glasses are foggy with particles. He wipes it clean with the bottom hem on his shirt.

He roughly slides the portrait against the wall, pulling it up. The shocking idealism of the painting still manages to catch his breath in his throat. He runs a hand over the glass, his eyes never leaving the perfect strokes of the brush.

See, here is the thing about having students like Hisoka and Yuu: he always keeps on hoping that they’d end up differently, that their paintings are only stories created in their head, instead of realities being forged quite deliberately in their art. Artists like Van Gogh and Picasso are extraordinary. Even Wing would beg to go back in time and study their progress. But here is the thing with artists like them: they may be astonishing, but they’re also astoundingly sad.

The painting is blended with a harsh color of green – different palettes colliding at the center of it all. A woman’s beautiful face is engraved delicately with oil colors. Her skin is blended with flesh and light emerald. Her eyebrows are drawn to a great extent of effort. Her lips are full, dark green shades blushing at the bottom to create magnificent shadows, and her eyes are the color of mint and pine green, slightly different hues working to create an even livelier picture.

At first, Wing had thought that the portrait was fantastic, a symbol of love given by Yuu to another woman, whether it may be fictional or not.

But his opinion quickly changed when he had heard the news: Yuu had killed the girl he loved, slicing her belly open. The girl was carrying a baby, only two months old. When Yuu had found out that it belonged to another man, he was contained by jealousy, the green substance forming images in his mind. Even before then, jealousy had eaten him, because the girl had been seeing someone else.

When Wing received the news, he visited Yuu at the jail, asking him if he wanted to keep his portrait. Yuu took one long look at him and asked him to leave. Wing couldn’t throw it away, so he decided to use the portrait as an example to his future students, or whenever one of his students wanted to see a work.

It seems wrong to be keeping an art created by a murderer, but really, aren’t artists killers in their own way?

He makes his way outside when he finishes cleaning up. He returns to the classroom, bringing the painting with him. He sets it on a stool, making sure the painting is at level with Hisoka’s height.

The redhead doesn’t look up. His golden eyes stay focused on his painting, his knuckles turning white when the pressure blends with his bones. He takes a contented breath and finally glances up. He flashes Wing a playful smile. “Why, thank you, professor.” He offers Wing a handkerchief. “But you should take a look in the mirror. Did you have sex with the dust in there?”

Wing hesitantly accepts it, and he dabs it on his sweating forehead. “Dirt and I get along rather well. Exactly why I took the job.”

Hisoka smirks, and turns his attention to the painting. His eyes narrow, but his pupils dilate immediately. His lips are gaped slightly, and his chest heaves, like his lungs are preparing to take a hit. Hisoka is looking at the painting the way people look at the ones they love – entranced and benign, unable to find anything or anyone more beautiful.

Wing probably looks at the same, when he takes a peak at Hisoka’s own work, while the other is still captivated. He may be breathing, but his chest isn’t prepared for the jarring impact.

The painting is now altered; the colors are darker than before, more of black than blue. Silver strokes are lining their way up the corners of the skull. The serpentine tongue attacks the viewer with the maroon hues dripping from its tip. Inside, Wing can see the vocal cords hanging close together in the throat. It looks realistic, too realistic; in fact, Wing wouldn’t believe such a masterpiece could be created without Hisoka checking the exact organ.

But this, Wing realizes, is the difference between Yuu and Hisoka: while Yuu has a talent of a perfectionist, his bones striving harder than anyone’s to gain the best shade, the best stroke, the best concept, he doesn’t have the emotional imbalance to steel himself for flight. On the other hand, Hisoka has the kind of talent that involves always being on his feet, an ongoing train track with no possibilities of braking. His hands are moving, and even he doesn’t know when it won’t. He is time, he is sun kissed and flammable. His hands are riptides, and his fingers are animal teeth. He is _life_.

But at the same time, he is also death.

“You’re almost finished, aren’t you?” Wing finally asks, gaining his composure.

Hisoka doesn’t seem to have lost it. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He hesitates for a second. “I’m thinking of going darker, you know?” He runs his hand over the thin air, gesturing to the length of his painting. “It doesn’t seem to have the right colors. The blood looks like it’s fake. I need something more . . . _real._ ”

Wing nods, like he understands, but he doesn’t. Because he can’t keep his mind off Yuu, and how awful his life turned out to be. He can’t stop thinking about how one painting can say so much about a person that each stroke and color is significant. What is Hisoka saying? What is he implying?

But more importantly: does he even want to be heard?

 

~***~

 

Hisoka tried acting before. His teachers urged him to get a role in the school play. At first, he didn’t want to. He thought acting was stupid, but one time, when his mom was magically not drunk, she told Hisoka to join the auditions. Hisoka wanted to believe if he did, his mother’s soberness would continue. Unfortunately, he was a foolish boy, and he didn’t have much of a dick back then.

But he was casted for the main role in the play _Tanabata._ _Tanabata_ is a yearly even celebrated on July seventh. The story is centered on two lovers – Altair (the Cowherd Star) and Vega (the Weaver Star). They’re separated by the Milky Way, but obviously, that doesn’t stop them from seeing each other every year on the seventh day of the seventh moon.

He enjoyed acting as Altair. He felt something – a proud feeling – curdling in his stomach. He had given his parents two tickets for the show, but the night before, his mom got drunk. His dad was smoking, also holding a beer bottle in his hand. He gripped the edge of the bottle tightly, and he slashed the glass against Hisoka’s head.

He couldn’t remember much after that. Only that he hadn’t been back in a theater after the incident.

Until now.

The walls are made of strong and furnished wood. The red curtains hang heavily at the sides as Illumi drags the rope upward, so that the drapes are sliding away from the center. Hisoka sits down on one of the leather seats, making himself comfortable. On the center stage, a piano is sitting comfortable on the wood. Illumi silently walks toward it. Hisoka can see the gentle flick of Illumi’s wrists as he readies himself for a promised performance.

Earlier today, Hisoka had seen Illumi at the cafeteria. There was no society class today, so Hisoka took his time before going back home. He saw Illumi sitting himself, arranging his notes. Hisoka went over to him with a Sneakers bar, earning a restrained smile. Hisoka had bribed him: if Illumi wants to see more of his paintings, then Illumi would have to showcase his own talent. Illumi probably wants to see more ( _much_ more), since he agreed.

Illumi sits on the stool and pushes the case upward. He presses a note, checking the sound system. The tune rings in the speakers. Hisoka watches him take a deep breath, as he fiddles with his pencil, ready to sketch. It’ll be hard to draw Illumi when Hisoka can’t take his eyes off the target, but he’ll have to make do, because once Illumi starts playing, his fingers move on their own.

Illumi’s fingers are tender and slick over the keyboard. His eyes are full of hidden emotions – sadness, fear, and something darker. His body moves with the rhythm of the piece. The music starts slow at first before the notes escalate, the sound digging deeper and darker than the previous ones. It rises for five seconds before it lowers again. And then, the piece halts to a sloping stop.

“That was _Moonlight Sonata_ ,” Illumi says, “by Beethoven.”

Hisoka nods. He’s listening, but he also can’t speak. His fingers are moving without a second thought, his pencil dragging across the page in careless marks. “I want more,” he says. “I like it.”

The other man doesn’t hesitate. He continues playing, but the tune is different. A different song. Livelier. A tune full of life, and its upbringing and misfits. The tone heightens, and then gains ground. Hisoka can hear the madness slipping from Illumi’s movements and expressions. He can see the slight sadness when Illumi’s eyebrows are drawn together to a close. His hand goes on with moving, moving, moving.

 _Scherzo Diabolico_ , he realizes, recognizing the beat. By Alkan.

“More,” Hisoka whispers, his voice hoarse. “I want more.”

But this time, he doesn’t know what he’s referring to, whether he means the song, or Illumi himself.

This time, the song is fast paced, as if Illumi’s fingers aren’t waiting for anything. His form is straight as his hands glide over the keys in a fast motion, following the heart to the tune. Hisoka finds himself nodding at the beat, his own hand brushing over the page like trains riding the rusty tracks. It’s the kind of piece people can dance do, and Illumi is pushing the joy over the edge with his own version.

 _Rondo alla Turca_ by Mozart – ever the classical composer.

The next song starts slow, bringing a forlorn moment, but it immediately rises in temperament. The tone sounds almost angry. Illumi’s fingers are forcing down the keyboard. Hisoka’s motion increases in speed, and he glances down once in a while to check if he’s still on the right track. The lines are messy, but it catches the perfect momentum of the mixture of music. And Illumi looks beautiful, the slope of his nose nearly impossible to believe, the angle of his jaw winsome.

 _Passacaglia_ by Handel.

The continuous music holds to a stop for one hesitant second. Illumi’s face is blanching, like he just realized what he’s been doing for the past few minutes. But he takes one look at Hisoka and regains his composure. He settles his fingers on the keyboard, playing the tune to Moonlight Sonata. It’s softer, melodious, and Hisoka can hear the tender temper Illumi is expressing. Illumi’s eyes are closed, all the tension gone from his body.

When he’s finished, he looks around the room, glances down at his slightly shaking fingers.

He breathes. “That was the first time I’ve performed in front of a crowd.”

Hisoka’s head snaps up in surprise. “Really?” He asks, incredulous. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone that good.” Which is true. Illumi has incredible talent, buried beneath the emptiness of his gaze. That explains the long fingers, and the blue lines connecting his wrists. Illumi is born with the hands of a pianist, even Hisoka is sure of that. So, why is he taking pre-law, if Illumi is so much better than that?

“My parents don’t like me practicing very often. They get in the way of studies, and they expect a lot from me. But I try to sneak in when no one is at home.” His face scrunches up in wonder. “Is that considered rebellion?”

“Maybe.” Hisoka looks down at his work – all messy and full of intangible lines, unable to connect into one string, and yet still so beautiful that Hisoka finds himself staring. Then, he stares up at Illumi, who’s making his way down the stage. He flashes the man a quirky grin. “My little Illumi, ever the rebel.”

That catches Illumi off guard. “What did you say?”

Hisoka laughs. “I’m just teasing.” He waves his hand and pats it on the seat next to him. “Now come here and witness my brilliance.”

Illumi takes a seat, looking at Hisoka like the man might be crazy. Well, the description’s not too far off. His gaze travels to Hisoka’s sketchpad, and he blinks. Hisoka’s not sure whether it’s from surprise or disbelief, but any emotion is enough at this point.

“It’s really muddled,” Hisoka admits. “It looks like my hands have epilepsy. But I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I don’t know. I kind of like it.”

Illumi glances at him. His hands are still quivering, _quivering, quivering_. “I kind of like it, too.” The words are whispered, hushed. It’s like an angel took the air out of Illumi’s lungs and transferred it over, choosing Hisoka as the victim. Because now, as Hisoka repeats the words over and over in his head, his chest cavity caves it on itself, making it harder and harder to breathe.

 

~***~

 

Machi knows that she shouldn’t care. She also knows that she shouldn’t be wasting her time on Hisoka, because _friends_ don’t mean _I won’t ditch you_. And Hisoka has a pleasant track record of that.

She stabs the salad with her fork, inserting it inside her mouth.

Last night, they agreed that they’d be eating lunch together. Hisoka even said that he’d be the one to buy food this time, because he doesn’t have time to cook (he does), and he’s also a lazy piece of shit (he is). And because Machi wanted to believe that Hisoka wanted to spend some quality time together, her foolish heart took the bait – and took the beating.

Now, her skin is flushed under the searing heat. The clouds have parted a few minutes ago. Her jacket and scarf are hanging loosely on the other seat, where Hisoka should be.

“It’s just a guy,” she says, but she knows that she’s lying. Hisoka _is_ just a guy – he makes her angry at every little thing, he annoys the hell out of her, and he doesn’t know how to take care of himself. But he also makes her laugh, even though she would never admit it. He gives her some of his sketches, and she has every single one taped to her wall where he can’t find. He buys her favorite soap when he’s at the grocery store. Sometimes, he treats her to takeout and watch movies.

Sometimes. He makes her happy. Sometimes.

She just has to fall in love.

“It’s just a guy,” she repeats, and hopes that this time, she’ll believe it.

 

~***~

 

 

Before they leave, Hisoka tells Illumi to go first. He grabs his golden Sharpie from his pocket and leaves a note on the back of the leather seat.

When he’s done, he gets up and gathers his things, smiling when he sees Illumi waiting for him at the doorway. His smile widens when he goes to slip their hands together, and Illumi doesn’t question it – just goes along, squeezing back when he feels more comfortable.

_I listened to the songs that reminded me of you. You were a requiem I didn’t want to lose._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to classical music for this, and I tried very hard to describe it. I'm so sorry.


	9. You

Chapter Nine

 

October 2013

 

 

Machi always cooks for him.

It’s been a part of their daily routine ever since the incident four years ago. Machi will pack the food, and Hisoka will buy the groceries. It’s a win-win situation, since Hisoka doesn’t like to cook, and Machi is uncomfortable buying food in the market. She said that it makes her feel like a mom. Honestly, with her bossy attitude and her frequent desire to nag the shit out of his eardrums, she’s damn near the role. Hisoka’s been tempted to say that ever since the routine started, but he doesn’t want to lose Machi’s cooking – not when her sandwiches honestly feels like he’s about to have sex.

The best part about buying food is that he gets to hook up with girls. He doesn’t get the gist of it, but ladies are attracted to men who buy in the grocer. Does picking out tomatoes make him sexy? Does sniffing the milk to make sure of its expiration date hot? It’s a question he still doesn’t have the answer to. He’s hoping that one day, he will figure it out. Unfortunately, that day is not today.

Hisoka saunters off to the fridge to find it empty. Except for the strawberry milk rotting near the too rip tomato, he doesn’t have anything to eat. He pops open the cap to the milk and quickly takes a smell. He blinks the wave of disgust rolling on his face and tosses the milk in the trash bin. He shudders are the glaring tomato and throws that out as well.

He’s been so busy with Illumi these past few days that he completely forgot about his food stock. Last he checked, he still had a Tupperware of lasagna sitting in his fridge. Although, that has probably entered his stomach and exited somewhere else . . .

He slams the fridge shut and walks out of his apartment room, but not before he slides his wallet into his pocket. He hurries to Machi’s apartment, his stomach grumbling. He doesn’t bother to knock on the door. Machi probably already knows that it’s him, because he’s the only person rude enough to not ensure a proper greeting. He finds Machi sitting in front of the kitchen counter, her long legs crossed, squeezed tight with her short shorts.

But that’s not what’s grabbing his attention.

It’s the loads of dough and cream splattered across the kitchen area. Grains of powder are swimming on her floorboards. The table is covered in various kinds of fillings and crumbs. On the kitchen counter, two trays of cupcakes are placed carelessly at the middle. The sink is a warzone of plates and batter equipment. But the war must have been in her favor because dozens of cupcakes are resting on the table, waiting to be eaten. Machi is about to shove the whole cupcake in her mouth when Hisoka clears his throat.

“Did you have sex with someone while you were cooking?”

Machi’s eyes widen in surprise, her cheeks puffy with dessert. She wipes the icing off the corners of her mouth, trying to swallow the whole thing. Hisoka grins, watching her take the double effort of not embarrassing herself. But Hisoka already caught her red-handed. Last week, Machi wouldn’t even touch a chocolate bar, not when Hisoka threatened to kiss her with his mouth. Now, she has baked enough desserts for a party – and that only happens when she’s feeling something meticulously unappealing.

“Excuse me,” Machi says, clearing her throat. Her neck is caked with batter. “I have every right to have an appetite for dessert.”

“Oh, I know. But what I’m wondering about is why the place looks like you’ve created a tornado with your hands.” He gestures to the kitchen. “Although, you look splendidly sexy in those shorts.”

Another blush creeps up her face like a tidal wave. She tugs down her clothing and waits for the wave to subside back to the ocean. “What are you doing here, anyway?” She looks like she’s about to say something else, but she bites it back down.

“I’m out of food,” Hisoka informs. “I was thinking of getting it here.” He walks toward the kitchen counter, bending over the edge to take a closer look. He looks at the decorations first, finding anything that’s even remotely close to pink. But most of them are dark colored: blue, violet, green.

He spots a pastel yellow icing over one cupcake and takes a small bite. A rush of lemon rolls over his tongue. The icing melts in his mouth like lava rocks. The taste is familiar, almost as if it’s bitter and sweet at the same time. A memory. It takes him a moment before he snaps his eyes at Machi, questioning.

Machi shrugs, avoiding his gaze. “I wanted to try it out,” she whispers. “It’s his favorite, after all.”

Hisoka nods tightly, putting the cupcake back into place.

“Anyway, I don’t have any food here. I thought you were in charge of buying everything you needed.”

“I am, but I’ve been so busy that I completely forgot.” He grins at her. “You know how I am.”

And she does. Machi does, even if she will never admit it. Sometimes, Machi catches him by surprise, when the woman finds him at just the right moment. It’s almost as if there’s a string between them. Once Hisoka tugs once, Machi knows that it’s okay. When it’s twice, Machi realizes the urgency. But despite that thin connection, there’s always something missing, a barrier between that’s impossible to miss.

Surely, Machi knows that fully well. She must also know the reason of why that wall is thickly unabridged.

“Actually, that’s why I came here,” Hisoka perks up. He grasps both of Machi’s hands, tugging her body upward. Their chest collides in one swift motion. “Come buy food with me.”

Machi rolls her eyes. “I’m not going out like this. And I still have to clean up.”

“Oh, please. You look fine. More than fine, actually. You look sexy as hell. And just leave the damn cupcakes. No one will give a rat’s ass about it.”

“You’re such a charmer.” Machi narrows her eyes in distaste.

But Hisoka knows that he already has Machi curled around his finger.

 

~***~

 

His theory is correct.

When he enters the grocery store, a cart in tow, with Machi gorgeous and attractive at his side, the amount of girls staring at him only increases. It’s almost as if they’re begging him to come to them, frantic and desperate. He catches the gaze of one woman, her green eyes glinting when he returns her smile. He memorizes her features: the gentle slope of her lips, the lines drawn on the corner of her eyes, and the widening fragment of her pupils. It’s so delicate – to hold something like attention is such a fragile thing.

It’s an amusing thing to watch, and it’s even better when Machi notices the gazes fixed on the man beside her, and blatantly glares.

“Did you just bring me here to gain more spotlight?” Her voice is laced with annoyance and anger. Granted, he practically dragged her to the grocery in an attempt to both test his theory, and seriously stock up on food.

That, and he hasn’t hung out much with Machi in nearly a week. His attention has been focused on Illumi alone. In between painting, university, and his brand new interest in the man, he doesn’t have much time to focus on anything else. He’s sure Machi doesn’t notice it, anyway. In fact, she was probably begging for a break from his presence, and he gave her just that.

Or maybe he’s just trying – rather hard – to do something else.

“Maybe,” Hisoka allows. “But hey, grocery shopping is fun. And you get to have say in my nutrition this time.”

That’s the thing with Machi: she’s so keen on getting the right food that she just bursts out when he almost gives her meat. She told him that he would one day get fat, that the flat surface of his stomach will bloat like storm clouds, but he flashed her his abdomen, and she immediately shut up.

Machi proceeds to the vegetable aisle, Hisoka following behind her. His eyes zero in on the tight fit of her shorts against her upper thighs, trailing down to the gentle curve of her legs, the smooth facet of her skin. She glances behind her, and he pretends to find the floor vastly interesting.

It’s no secret that he thinks Machi is attractive. Really, who doesn’t? Even the guys in the troupe will rate her a ten out of ten, maybe even more when she actually fixes her short temper and her ignorance. But even if she _does_ , and even if she doesn’t, Hisoka doubts that they’ll ever be more than that. Although, he knows that Machi has been considering the possibility, while he’s obviously ignoring it.

Machi pulls out a plastic of tomatoes, potatoes, and other vegetables with “toes” out of the freezer. She places them delicately inside the cart. “I’m going to have to search some ingredients to go with that, but I think we’re good.”

“Mhm,” he says. “Whatever you say.”

Machi then avoids the meat section, making Hisoka laugh. He’s guessing he’s going to have to go on a diet this week, considering the produce she’s picked out. But Hisoka trusts her instinct. He really doesn’t want to lose his abs. He spots a stack of bananas placed on the table. He pokes the cart against Machi’s back to grab her attention.

“Hey, have you ever tasted a banana?”

Machi’s eyebrows are drawn together in confusion. “Who’s never eaten a banana?”

“Illumi,” Hisoka says. “He says that he’s never even thought about it before. I don’t know. I just think it’s kind of weird, don’t you think?”

At the mention of Illumi’s name, Machi’s expression suddenly clouds over, as if the light has avoided her face. She ignores his statement and walks forward, speeding her pace. Hisoka strains to catch up. With the amount of food they’re going to buy, he feels like his arms are about to loosen from their sockets. The fact that Machi seems like she’s actually _sprinting_ doesn’t help his case.

When she finally slows down to a stop, they’re by the condom section. Machi inspects a pack, pursing her lips.

“Oh, I have plenty of condoms in my room,” Hisoka announces.

“These aren’t for you. They’re for me.”

That makes Hisoka step back in surprise. A smile widens on his face. “Really?” He laughs. “So, you got yourself a new boyfriend, huh?”

Her face scrunches up, like she’s tasting something bitter. “I’m thinking about it.” She looks at him directly, a challenge. “Since you’re already starting to forget me, I might as well find someone worth my time.”

She tosses a whole box in the cart, stomping her way down the floor.

“Hey, what do you mean by that?” Hisoka speeds up, matching her stride. “I’m not replacing you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, no, Hisoka. I just don’t want to keep waiting for you.”

Hisoka’s face is etched with a question mark. His mind is raking for anything that might be considered an answer, but all he can come up with is, “What?”

Machi veers at him. “You know, I was waiting for you to come up at lunch, but you never did.” She shakes her head, her hair swinging behind her. “Is that the way you’re supposed to treat your best friend?”

Honestly, he’s never even thought about that yesterday. It just slipped off his mind, like water sliding down a sewer. It doesn’t have any particular damage in his system, so he won’t even consider it a warning. But what really surprises him is how he’s – _they’re_ – labeled. Hisoka has never thought of her as a best friend, simple because he assumed that he wasn’t hers.

And the string connecting their fingers doesn’t have labels or warning signs imprinted on their wrists. Machi has been with Hisoka enough to know that his heart is unattached, a lingering promise in this world that will never be fulfilled. And Hisoka has been with Machi enough to know that she shouldn’t care – not before, and especially not now.

Machi must’ve realized it, too, because her eyes hollow over. She straightens her back, regaining her composure. She lifts a cereal box and tosses it into the cart. “Corn flakes,” she says lamely. “I like them.”

Hisoka doesn’t say anything. He just trails behind her, unable to cut the silence looming over them.

Machi’s lying. She always is. She hates cereal more than anything.

And her feelings for him have never been more obvious.

 

~***~

 

Milluki only has one promise to his brother, and that’s to make sure that Kikyo will never find out. He’s already erased his search history. He’s pretending that Hisoka doesn’t exist, so that when Kikyo will ask him about it, his tongue won’t curl like a snake. It’s not because he loves his brother. In this kind of family, love isn’t even in the equation. It’s an erased formula, a theory that has been depleted.

But Milluki has respect for Illumi. He doesn’t know how his older brother has managed to keep up his back, to fix his brain and system every time Kikyo uses something to damage it over and over again. His father, Silva, doesn’t even give a damn about Illumi’s well-being, simple because his wife is the one occupying every breathing space.

Besides, among the siblings, he and Milluki are the closest.

He’s about to arrange the program in his head once again when his mother suddenly barges in.

She’s wearing her usual business suit, a strict look on her face. Milluki has the urge to cower, but he stops himself.

“Milluki,” Kikyo snaps. “Where is Illumi?”

“I don’t know,” Milluki answers, even though that is a total lie.

He has tracked Illumi’s location to an apartment downtown. It’s not too far from the city, but it will take Illumi half an hour to get back. Milluki’s pretty sure that the apartment is owned by Hisoka himself.

“Well, find him!” Kikyo barks. “I need him – right now!”

Milluki nods viciously, already turning to his computer. Kikyo stomps out of the room in anger. But instead of booting up the security system, Milluki fiddles with his phone. He sends a text to his older brother and heaves a sigh.

“Oh, Illumi. You are so screwed.”

_Code red, brother. I repeat, code red._

 

~***~

 

The smoke coils around the air like a serpent, colliding with the ceiling. Hisoka’s lips are pursed, shaped into a perfect o. He’s holding a cigarette in between his fingers, twirling it around. The bitter taste incapacitates his throat. But he relishes it, he engraves it on his tongue like a permanent tattoo, makes its brand a piercing inside his cheek. The thing about nicotine is that the feeling gets better the more he does it.

He turns to Illumi, who’s standing beside him. The man is watching him closely, staring at his lips. Hisoka feels his heartbeat quicken like wildfire. He swallows the lump back in his throat, smirking to relieve the tension off his chest. “Wanna try?” He offers Illumi the cigarette stick. But the man shakes his head.

“I don’t smoke.”

Hisoka chuckles. “Oh, I know. That’s why you have to try it.” He pushes his hand further into Illumi’s space. He adjusts his finger, so that the cigarette is directly near the curve of Illumi’s lips. “Come on.”

Illumi hesitates for a second, glancing at Hisoka for approval. He slowly leans it to place the cigarette in between his teeth. His face crumples up.

“Now, inhale it.”

Illumi takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, forcing the smoke to enter in his mouth. When he’s finished, Hisoka orders him to release the smoke slowly, make sure his lungs expand. Illumi does it perfectly, right at Hisoka’s face. Hisoka’s eyes are staring at the small oval of Illumi’s mouth, the tongue tempting the man to draw himself closer. Hisoka’s gaze travels to the bridge of his nose, to the sharp glint behind his eyes. _Beautiful,_ he thinks.

The smoke clears from Hisoka’s vision.

He dips his head down to narrow the gap between them. Their mouths are inching together. Hisoka’s chest compresses, a forest sticking to each other’s branches to make sure that it burns completely. His bones nearly collapse when Illumi crosses the bridge. Their lips open for the bait, but they draw apart when a phone starts to ring.

Hisoka presses his teeth together as Illumi answers the call. He focuses back on the railings, watching the sun reflect his eyes. If the world were to end right in that moment, he wouldn’t have hesitated to pull the plug. Not when the electricity between them already feels like a full pledged storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope this chapter is okay. Thank you for all the support, everyone! I seriously had no idea that people on tumblr were reading this until some of them messaged me about it. It makes me cry happy tears. ;w;


	10. Landfill

Chapter Ten

 

October 2013

 

 

This is the first time they’ve used the dining table together, Illumi realizes.

Silva usually eats in his office because of the large amount of client sitting in a heap on his desk. Kikyo takes her dinner in a restaurant with her friends or the many more clients she has for a business meeting. Milluki hogs the unhealthy lifestyle he has, cooped up in his room. And Kalluto – well, Illumi doesn’t know where Kalluto eats, or if she still eats at all. The child usually keeps to herself, which is why Silva is actually surprised to see her seated at the dining table.

Illumi is beside her, his back straightened, his expression stoic. But his hands are digging into his pants, trying to keep calm. The last time they’ve eaten together has been for a family reunion. Their relatives have come over to celebrate the success of the Zoldyck firm company. Silva has pretended to act delighted, while Kikyo has made it her job to make sure that she can please them. Illumi and Milluki stayed at the corners of the room, trying very hard not to be seen.

Because even when they’re finally in a gathering, they still feel like they don’t belong.

The maids bring in the food once everyone is settled. Silva and Kikyo are facing each other on the opposite ends of the table. Milluki is on the other side, his body practically occupying a large amount of space. On the table are American dishes; things Illumi have tasted a couple of times. The only noise Illumi can hear are the buzzing sounds of his chest, like a bomb has been implanted inside him, threatening to blow up. The other is the heavy silence settling over them like a cloudy weight.

Illumi cuts a piece of steak, taking a bite. He watches Milluki suck in a portion of mashed potatoes in his mouth. There’s grease on the corners of his chin. Illumi gives him a little kick, shaking his head in disapproval. But secretly, he’s amused. He’s the only member in the Zoldyck family who doesn’t give a damn about anything else, but food. Milluki’s cheeks are puffy.

“Milluki,” Kikyo snaps. “Eat properly.”

“Yes, mother,” Milluki replies. But it comes out as _yesh, muder._

The silence is hovering over them again.

Illumi is being poured a glass of wine when Kikyo starts speaking again.

“I heard you were at the library today,” Kikyo mentions, wiping her mouth with a napkin. Her steely gaze nearly pierces Illumi in half. He stays focused. He takes another bite of his steak.

Illumi nods. “I was. I was studying.”

“What can you possibly study there that you can’t do here?”

The man can list a hundred things: he can’t study the slope of Hisoka’s nose, how they look like they’ve been graced by ocean waves, instead of bones. He can’t take note of Hisoka’s lips, he can’t imagine the shape of it on his. He can’t scrawl down the way Hisoka’s hands are filled with so much dexterity, the man is practically oozing with talent. He can’t memorize the rough rattling of Hisoka’s chest when their faces are only inches apart, can’t further understand how Hisoka smells like strawberries, even though he has recently eaten chocolate.

He can’t study Hisoka – and he has to. For his own sanity.

Instead, Illumi clears his throat. “There are some research books that can’t be found here.”

That makes his mother quiet for one second. “Oh,” she says, displeased. “Well, list down the titles. I’ll get them for you.”

Suddenly, Silva speaks up. “Why not let him study at the library? The university has plenty of books that we don’t have here. Are you going to make him write them one by one, so that he can stay here?”

Illumi gets the hidden meaning of his father’s statement: _Are you going to make him write them one by one, so that you can cage him again?_

The thought shakes him from his seat. He loosens the strings tangling his bones together to breathe. Now that he knows what freedom looks like – what freedom _feels_ like – he can’t seem to let it go. He can breathe it in his chest, and he can hear it pounding against his ribcage. How can he let something so powerful fly away?

Kikyo purses her lips. “Fine.”

The topic is closed. But her look of defiance says otherwise. The thing about Kikyo Zoldyck, is that she’s used to getting what she wants. Silva has given her everything she can ever ask for – a twenty-four carat diamond ring, a study of her own (which is nearly as big as their bedrooms combined), a fantastic view to the garden maze at the back, high-tech security basis around the house, and the best of them all: Illumi’s control.

Illumi can’t blame his father. Silva must have been really whipped back then. He remembers his father telling him about the first time they’ve met. It had been in a lawyer conference for college students. Kikyo was the highest in her class. Silva was going to be a possible valedictorian. They had immediately clicked. Silva asked Kikyo for a date, and they went out.

Back then, Illumi has only been seven when Silva has told the story. He looked so in love back then, that looking at him _now_ feels like a large storm has settled on his knees. He shakes them off by wiggling his legs under the table. Milluki eyes him suspiciously, although Illumi can’t stop anymore.

“Mother,” Illumi says, when the storm is gone. “Am I still not allowed to have friends?”

The question shocks them all into place. Silva glances up from his steak, his blue eyes blinking sharply at his son. Milluki cowers back, looking like he’s about to flee from a battle. Kalluto is doing the same thing. But Kikyo stays on her ground, as if the roots have embedded her into place. Her eyes look frazzled, but her expression changes.

“What kind of question is that, Illumi?” Kikyo scoffs. She drinks her wine. “You know the rules.”

He does. He just doesn’t know if he should still follow it.

Looking at his father, his stomach gurgles. Is it possible for love to fade so quickly? If so, then what is he doing?

 

~***~

 

Kikyo finds herself bursting through her husband’s office. Honestly, she hates Silva’s domain. Sometimes, it’s too messy. Why would he leave the coffee mug sitting on the counter? What is the purpose of the lifestyle magazines on the coffee table? And why does he have useless pictures sitting on his desk? Her eyes snag on a photo of her and Silva, before she picks her attention away.

She wraps her robe closer to her body when she feels his eyes settle on the knot. “Something is wrong with our son,” she accuses.

Silva lifts an intrigued eyebrow. “And what is that?”

“I can’t – ” She sighs. She takes a seat on one of the leather chairs. “I can’t explain it. But I know that something is changing.”

Silva only looks at her. “I don’t quite understand what you’re saying.”

He never does. Sometimes, Kikyo thinks that the bond has vanquished between them, replaced by a debatable question mark lingering in between their bodies. She can’t even remember the last time they’ve had sex. Every time Kikyo is on the bed, Silva isn’t; or it will be the other way around. And when they are _both_ on the bed, the two of them are groping at the edges, the spaces between them an obstacle they can’t surpass. When was the last time Kikyo has actually kissed him?

“Illumi is different,” Kikyo notes. “I can’t quite place it.”

“When you say different,” he says slowly, twirling his fountain pen in between his rough fingers, “do you mean: he’s starting to destroy your walls?”

Kikyo feels her face and neck turn hot. “What do you mean by that?”

“Come on.” Silva laughs. “Everyone knows what you’re doing. If the library debacle today isn’t enough proof, then I don’t know what is.”

“Are you saying that I’m treating my son as an animal?”

Her husband stares at her hard, like he’s wondering who this person is in front of him. Kikyo feels the bridge collapsing on both sides of the city.

Silva’s eyes are cold. “Isn’t that what you’ve always been doing?”

 

~***~

 

“If you’re not careful, mom will find out.”

Illumi is sitting on Milluki’s bed, while his brother is playing with his game console. Milluki has told him about what he’s tried to find at the security site they have. Unfortunately, he actually finds none – well, none that can actually be used, if ever the situation goes hazard. But Illumi isn’t interested in Hisoka’s past, simply because the man is making it obvious that he’s not interested, either. Although, Illumi can’t help but think that Hisoka has more to hide than what he’s actually showing.

Then again, isn’t that what they’re doing as well?

“I suppose I should say thank you for warning me,” Illumi says. He inspects the game on Milluki’s screen. His brother is zooming past a road – a very colorful one. He’s driving a creature with a large turtle shell pasted on its back. It isn’t long before Milluki’s player goes berserk and drives off the edge of the road, into the pit of longing darkness. His brother sighs and finally turns around.

“Nothing to worry about, really.” He shrugs. “If you’re having fun with your boyfriend, then we might as well make it last.”

Illumi knows that’s not the case. His brother has been the one persuading him to go against their mother’s rules. Illumi can list them all one by one, but the most important thing is: don’t make friends.

Right now, he’s not even sure what to label Hisoka, if there is even a label at all. They hang out. Sometimes, Hisoka sketches him when he thinks Illumi is not looking. There are other times when Hisoka takes a large inhale of his nicotine and blows it at Illumi’s face. During those situations, Hisoka urges Illumi to try it once again – and Illumi does. Just not for the reason Hisoka thinks. Illumi wants to know what Hisoka tastes like, instead of having to settle for a piece of rolled paper, for a puff of smoke that never stays long enough on his tongue.

Instead, Illumi says, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yeah?” Milluki asks drily. “Well, tell that to the judge.”

Illumi feels a sharp sting on his face, as if he’s just been slapped. Milluki realizes the fault lines brimming on his statement and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s okay.”

Silence overtakes them like a flood. Illumi tries not to let it to him. Milluki doesn’t intend to hurt him, so getting bothered over it will only punch him back in the end. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He reaches for it and catches Hisoka’s name flashing on the phone.

Milluki lightens the mood with a teasing smile. “Is that your boyfriend?”

Illumi shakes his head; not really saying no, but it’s not a yes, either. He accepts the call, slumping back on the covers to retrieve his sanity back. “Hello.”

“Hey.” Hisoka’s voice booms through the speaker, soft and melodious. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Me, too.”

Illumi doesn’t know what to say next, or if he should say anything at all. Hisoka usually initiates the conversation, controlling the mood of the talk. He bites his lip, opening his mouth, but Hisoka comes first.

“Hang out with me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Exactly why we should hang out.”

Illumi considers it. “What are we going to do?”

He can practically hear Hisoka’s laugh-sigh through the phone. “Have sex. Make out. Play monopoly.” He laughs for real this time. “I’m kidding. No, seriously, hang out with me.”

“Give me a reason.”

“You can see my face.”

Again, Illumi considers that. “Not good enough.”

Hisoka breathes a sigh. “Fine. Teach me how to play the piano.”

His eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Why do you want me to do that?”

“So that I can watch you play,” he says. “So that we can hold hands for a reason. So that I can see your face.”

Is this what flirting is called? If it is, Illumi can’t grasp the concept of it. Hisoka is moving too fast. Illumi can’t catch up with the little knowledge he actually has. That’s when he realizes it: Hisoka has been doing this for years. He’s been prowling people in his trap, making them concede to his demands. He knows that Hisoka has never had a stable relationship. The man has said that his longest has been three days.

If Illumi gives in to him, will the ending be the same?

How long will he stay? How long will this last?

He doesn’t realize that he’s said the last thought out loud until there’s a beat of silence on the phone.

“As long as you’d like,” Hisoka murmurs.

Illumi glances at his brother, who’s back to playing his video game. Then, he looks at his phone, keeping it away from his ear. Hisoka’s face is bright on the screen, his lavish pink hair glinting in the shot. “Where will we meet?”

 

~***~

 

They meet at a train station.

Illumi scans the unfamiliar surroundings. It’s not that bad, but it’s an area he’s never been in before. It makes the hair on his skin tingle, telling him that he should go back home. But they’ve already agreed. Hisoka is already in the city, rushing toward this exact location. He said that there’s a theater downtown that he’d like Illumi to see. Because Illumi is curious, he’s decided to agree. The only problem is that they’re not taking a cab or a car.

And Illumi isn’t used to any other kind of transport.

He flinches when he feels a hand clamp over his waist, but the hold is gentle. He spins around to see Hisoka grinning down at him.

“You look so out of place,” Hisoka says, “that I feel like someone is going to steal your wallet.”

“I’ve never been here before,” Illumi admits.

“Oh, I know. That’s why we’re taking the train. I already have your ticket.”

“You didn’t have to buy for me.”

Hisoka chuckles. “Oh, I insist. Besides, I doubt you know how that works.”

That causes Illumi to blush. How can Hisoka see through him so clearly, when he’s trying very hard to rebuild his boundaries? It breaks even further – smashing the hairline crack into bits – when Hisoka folds their fingers together. Illumi learns not to question it. Sometimes, Hisoka does the most unpredictable things in the most unsettling moments. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t like it.

Hisoka inserts the ticket in the machine and heads forward. He gives the other to Illumi, who looks like the ticket is the most confusing thing in the universe. He finally slips it into the passageway and follows Hisoka, as the man retrieves his hand again. The train skids to a stop. They enter inside the vehicle. Illumi tries not to change his mind, but everything about this moment feels hazy, like he’s watching through a screen.

“The train is crowded,” Hisoka says. “I’ll go find you a seat.”

He makes Illumi sit next to the door, with Hisoka towering over him like a hawk. “Where are you going to sit?”

“I’m not.”

“But – ”

Hisoka interrupts him by placing a finger to Illumi’s lips. “Just relax. I can stand. You can sit. I just want to make this first time of yours worthwhile.”

Illumi can’t say no to that, not when nearly everyone on the train is listening to their conversation. He hides his face in the fabric of Hisoka’s shirt. This is why he hates public transport: he always catches other people’s attentions. He doesn’t know if it’s because of who he’s with (Hisoka, who lures people in like a siren), or his reputation, which isn’t that good at the moment.

When the crowd trains their faces away to something else, he lifts his head. Hisoka is watching something closely, blinking every time the train lights go in and out.

“Behind you,” Hisoka murmurs.

Illumi cranes his neck to check what Hisoka’s looking at. A soft gasp enters his mouth. Beyond the window, he can see the lavender skies forming into an ocean, dips of red and pink colliding into one hue. The clouds are thick; the plains are stretching out into the land. He can see the mountains gliding like waves at the surface. But what draws him the most is Hisoka’s face, reflecting on the glass.

“Do you see this everyday?”

“I _draw_ this everyday.”

“Doesn’t it get tiring?”

Hisoka smiles. “Never.”

He feels like Hisoka is about to say something more, but the moment is broken when a flash of lightning cracks through the open sky. The clouds gather together into one gray army.

The train stops at their destination. As the crowd disperses, Hisoka and Illumi wait until the train is nearly empty, before they step out. They exit past the staircase, but a light drizzle is already beginning to fall. He’s never been in this part of the city before. The roads are filled with autumn leaves. The billboards are old and rusty. There are old-fashioned music stores standing on the other side of the street. Illumi can see acoustic guitars sitting at the window display. It looks kind of vintage, and he can see why Hisoka has spent some of his time here. It’s just another difference between them, cutting his tongue like a hook.

“The theater isn’t too far from here, so we can go walk.” Hisoka shrugs. “Besides, there aren’t any cabs passing by.”

“But it’s going to rain.”

He smiles lazily. “Then, let’s hope it won’t.”

After a few more minutes, a storm forms up ahead.

“Please tell me you have an umbrella.”

Hisoka laughs. “I don’t.”

“You’re serious.”

“I obviously am.”

Illumi sighs. He should’ve known. The man is never prepared. “Then, what should we do?”

“Run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is okay. Thank you for all the support, my friends!


	11. Run

Chapter Eleven

 

October 2013

 

 

 _Run_ isn’t the best option, but it’s the only thing Hisoka can think of. The gray skies are churning overhead, presenting a wild storm forming in its wake. Lightning blinks at them from a distance. Hisoka watches it zigzag in the crossing sky before he concentrates on the road. The rain gets heavier with each passing step. It gets even worse when Hisoka finds the street absolutely empty, devoid of cars and people. They try to stay under the thick branches of the trees, but the storm glares at them all the more.

Illumi is running along beside him. His hair is sticking to his face like a second skin. His black eyes are trained up ahead. His mouth is gapped open, heavy breaths escaping his lips. Hisoka finds his own fogging the air. “My apartment isn’t too far from here,” Hisoka huffs out, laughing slightly. “Let’s rest there for a while.” Illumi nods at him, blinking up at the darkening sky.

“I’ve never bathed in the rain before,” he calls over the thunderous clap of the road. The streets are practically flooding with puddles. In a way, it’s good that there aren’t any cars around, or their tires would have skidded the water right in their direction. “It’s sticky.” He looks down at his own skin, dripping with water. Hisoka watches Illumi stare blankly at the sky, his eyes wide. If it weren’t raining right now, he would have gotten his sketchbook, but if it weren’t raining right now, he wouldn’t see the man look so beautiful.

Hisoka stretches his fingers over Illumi’s head, and the man glances up in question. “Let’s run.”

They head off again, their heads catching the droplets of water.

At one point, Hisoka’s smile spreads over his lips like wings, trying to dowse itself into an ocean. Like Illumi, he’s never really done this before – running under the rain. He usually takes a cab, and he’s far too tired to go out when the weather is this awful. The water attaches itself securely against his skin, as if they were telling him to stick closer. He glances at Illumi, matching his pace with ease. His long hair flies across his back like a trail. Hisoka squeezes his hand past the boundary he’s forged and holds Illumi’s hand, tangling their fingers together like the annoying knots of earphones.

Before long, Hisoka can see his apartment just a few more blocks away. He hurries his pace, with Illumi catching up to his long strides. They rest when they finally arrive at the building. The walls are covered in gray paint, matching the even strokes of the sky. The staircase rattles slightly when Hisoka and Illumi take a step. As they travel farther up, they study the graffiti on the walls.

“Do you put your art here?” Illumi questions.

Hisoka smiles slightly. “No. I’ll probably outrank everyone else. I don’t want all the spotlight on myself.”

But he does admit it: some of them are beautiful – a building is painted on one side, the rest of the city dull in comparison; there is a girl waiting in the middle, her hands tucked behind her back, her mouth zipped tightly, as if she’s holding a secret; the other portion is blasted with colors of lavender and pink, clouds forming heavily at the top before it turns darker at the base. Hisoka would have offered his own masterpiece, but Machi will know it’s him, and she’ll probably knock his head into his own art. He purses his lips, considering it.

Hisoka opens the lock on his door and steps inside, breathing in the waft of air coming from his apartment. Glazes of oil paintings greet his nose in a rush. His recent art is placed near the walls for him to admire. Illumi steps inside, shrugging off his coat.

“Well,” he says. “This is a surprise.”

“What is?”

Illumi hangs his clothes on the coat rack. “It’s clean.”

Hisoka laughs loudly, unbuttoning his thick jacket. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Honestly, he’s surprised as well. Compared to the first – and second – time Illumi’s been here, his apartment is less messy. The plates on the sink are gone. The socks and underwear lying on the floor are nowhere to be found. He remembers putting them in the wash this morning. Although the floors are still littered with paint marks, Hisoka considers them as decorations, instead.

He begins for the bathroom, getting towels for the both of them. But he’s surprised to see Illumi following him in his bedroom. This is the one part of the apartment where they haven’t hung out before, simply because Hisoka doesn’t find this particular portion all that appealing. Hisoka’s room is simple. There is a single bed near the wall. Small windows are placed on either side. In the morning, Hisoka is greeted by a glaring light of the morning sun, his own eyes reflecting the sharp color. Illumi is barefoot, his jeans rolled to his knees.

Hisoka offers him the towel, and Illumi accepts it gratefully. He rubs his hair carefully with the fabric, making sure the knots don’t get worse. He walks over to the bed and sits there. Hisoka blinks at him, wondering what he should say, or if there’s something to say at all. He can tell that the string between them has snapped, replaced instead by a thicker and steadier band. If he stretches too wide, the fallout may slap him in the face. But if he doesn’t test his limits, then the outcome will stay the same.

Suddenly, Illumi walks back toward him, as if he’s sensing Hisoka’s dilemma. He gestures to the buttons of his white undershirt. He looks up at Hisoka, his dark eyes passing the secret he has, threatening to crack Hisoka’s lips. “My hands are cold,” Illumi states. “Can you remove my shirt for me?”

Hisoka’s eyes widen in surprise. The electricity bounces between their skins like snapping twigs. Hisoka looks at Illumi’s delicate fingers, quivering slightly from the cold – or maybe from something else. He finally swallows the fire stuck in his throat, and it ends up burning a hole in his stomach. He begins to unhook the buttons from their positions, and it isn’t long before his own hands start shaking.

 

~***~

 

Machi shouldn’t have gone out on a date.

At first, it was only because she was desperate. She wanted to take Hisoka off her mind, to make sure that the crevices of her body don’t have his name painted in the smallest ridges. But even when she tries _not_ to think of him, she ends up doing the same thing. See, the thing about Hisoka is that no matter how hard she pretends not to like him, she ends up falling even more. It’s like he knows how to lure her in, how to envelop her in the things she wants to hear.

Her friend has set her up on a blind date. The day before, she’s asked Machi her preferences in a guy – dark hair, slightly tanned skin, loves the classics. Turns out you can find that kind of guy everywhere, because her friend has immediately hooked her up with Aki Tamako. He’s a second-year college student in another university. He studies literature.

Despite his appealing personality and looks, there’s only one problem: he’s not Hisoka.

They’re strolling inside one of the city’s museums. Pillars are lining in the area, supporting the stoned weight of the building. Lush carpets are drawn on the floors, stretched out like a plain. Intricate patterns and designs are marked on the floor. Machi can imagine Hisoka taking a mental photo for later usage. Machi can picture out Hisoka laughing every time he sees a painting that he likes. Sometimes, Machi will even feel his breath closing up in her throat. She shakes the thought away, trying to concentrate on Aki, who looks like he’s about to catch the cold.

Machi’s coat is riding over her shoulders. Her hands are wrapped together, so that Aki won’t reach out and touch hers. He’s walking beside her, clearly uncomfortably by the invisible gap sleeping in between them. He suddenly stops short in front of a painting Machi is familiar with.

The title is _Bacchus and Adriadne_ by Titian.

The painting is dull with colors, a mixture of dry brown and evergreen. There are two leopards meeting each other’s gaze. A man is standing on a rock, his pink cloth draped across his arms. There is another man, naked and struggling, with a length of snakes coiled around his body like a whip. There is a peach colored material on the ground. On top of it is a cup, or maybe a trophy. Honestly, Machi doesn’t know what the painting signifies, but she remembers Hisoka talking about it not less than six months ago.

Aki looks clueless, finding the words that are never there. “Uh,” he mutters, squinting at the name engraved at the bottom. “So, this is by . . . Titan?”

“Titian,” Machi corrects. “He’s an Italian painter in the Renaissance period. He was the greatest Venetian artist at the time.”

Aki stares at her hard. “You like art?”

Machi only shakes her head. “No, but I know someone who does.”

And that man is probably tangling limbs with another by now, his mouth closing against the other’s lips in an embrace. She folds her arms around her body, like she’s protecting herself from the hit, but that doesn’t stop her chest from crumbling when she realizes, with a startling jolt, that he’s probably doing the exact same thing.

 

~***~

 

It comes slowly, like Hisoka is taking his time. Illumi looks at the sharp ovals of Hisoka’s fingernails and sees yellow paint looped under. It seems like Hisoka has tried to eat happiness, but he’s already eaten so much that it’s reached his skin, or – Hisoka has tried to keep it in his tongue, but it can only go on for so long before he finally wrenches out the things he can’t swallow. Hisoka’s fingers bristle with Illumi’s bare chest, and the man tries not to whimper in yearning.

His breath explodes in his lungs, even though that’s where it’s supposed to live. It has formed a whirlpool in his ribcage, attacking his bones like bombs. And it’s only a matter of time before Illumi’s body collapses in need. When Hisoka unclasps the final button, he drags the sleeves down, revealing Illumi’s muscles. Illumi keeps his face blank, but he can tell that Hisoka already knows the rapid screaming of his heart. He observes the way Hisoka’s own shirt is pricking his body, making it look tight and constricted.

Hisoka tosses Illumi’s shirt on the bed, looking down at the closing bridge between them.

“What do you want us to do?” Hisoka asks softly.

Honestly, Illumi doesn’t know what he should do. He’s never been in this situation before. He’s never acted so carelessly, felt anything so fiercely that he’ll take a step closer to the fault lines, just so he can burn in Hisoka’s core. He drums his fingers on Hisoka’s shoulders, taking a step closer. “I don’t know,” he admits. “What do _you_ want us to do?”

At that, Hisoka laughs loudly. “Illumi,” he breathes, “you have no idea what kind of question you just asked, do you?”

“Was that . . . was that the wrong one?” His eyebrows are drawn together in confusion.

Hisoka crosses the bridge, meets Illumi halfway. His hand is tucked under the curve of Illumi’s jaw. His fingers are tracing the smooth pathway of his neck. Their faces are reflections of each other’s desires, a sky so clear that even Illumi can see the storm hiding beneath it. His skin burns tightly. His bones nearly convulse, an action prominent enough to make his heart quiver.

“You’ve never kissed anyone before,” Hisoka notes. “Right?”

Illumi shakes his head, ducks his head in embarrassment. He understands that Hisoka has been with plenty of girls. He knows that if he explores the world of Hisoka’s mouth, he’ll taste someone different.

“Good,” he whispers, “because then, I’ll be the first.”

He dips his head down to meet the bow curve of Illumi’s lips, traps his breath in between his teeth, so that when their lips finally close together, Illumi will feel everything.

 

~***~

 

Ironically, on that very same day, is Phinks’ work shift in that said museum. He’s cleaning one of the paintings when he sees Machi in the same area. She’s walking with another guy, her lips locked tight, like there’s a secret in her mouth she doesn’t want him to see. In a way, Phinks already knows what it is. He’s heard Machi complain to Nobunaga about the blind date her friend has planned. But he didn’t think Machi would actually to go. Unless the girl is so desperate that she’ll settle for anyone.

He hears Feitan’s own voice mocking him: _Maybe she’ll consider your ass, too._

Phinks shakes the thought away and crumples the cloth in his pocket. He stalks over to Machi, just when she glances up to meet his stare. Her lips open in a perfect oval shape before they close again. “On a date, huh?” Phinks grins. He can tell that this is awkward for him – seeing the girl he likes go with someone else, someone who isn’t him. He hears Feitan’s faint laughter in the blocks of his mind.

Machi only shrugs. “I wanted to have some fun.”

Even Phinks can tell that this isn’t fun for her. The guy looks like he’s about to hide himself in the collar of his shirt. Machi isn’t much better. As much as he hates Hisoka, the person Machi is with can’t even compare.

The guy steps backward, casting a nervous glance in Phinks’ direction. “Um,” he stammers. “It’s getting late, so I better go.”

Machi lifts an eyebrow at him, incredulous. “Just like that?”

He hesitates for a moment. “Well . . .” He clears his throat. “Let’s face it: neither of us are having fun. Whoever this guy is, is lucky, I guess.” He shrugs, trying for a polite smile. “I’ll see you later.” And then, he hurries out of the corridor, glancing back to make sure that Phinks isn’t following him.

“Wow,” he comments. “What a wimp.”

She only shrugs again, pursing her lips. “Another guy you scared away.”

Phinks scoffs. “Yeah, right. He’s about to flee, anyway. Damn rat.”

Machi doesn’t say anything more, probably finding the need not to. She turns to another painting, tiredly looking over the hues. “Why are you working in a museum?”

Which answer isn’t going to cost him his dignity? Phinks honestly can’t say anything without putting his feelings on the line. He can say that he wants to know about art, which isn’t exactly a lie. He finds it interesting now. Sometimes, he actually takes the time to memorize what’s being presented on the walls. He can also tell her that being a janitor for an art museum, that isn’t all that popular, actually has a good pay. But he’d be flat out lying. This isn’t exactly a tourist spot, unless Hisoka magically plasters his own art on the walls.

“I just wanted to try it out, I guess.” Phinks shrugs. “Why were you on a date?”

“I just wanted to try it out, I guess,” Machi mocks, smiling.

Phinks stares at her drily. “Ha. Very funny.”

This time, Machi laughs, a fluttering sound that beats deep in his chest. Phinks chuckles after. But it quickly dies down, the atmosphere heavy with paint and the oceanic distance between them.

“Where do you think he is?” Phinks asks. “What do you think he’s doing?”

Machi doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “In his apartment,” she assumes. “With Illumi. Doing the things we could’ve done if Hisoka hadn’t met him.”

But even with the firmness of her statement, Phinks doubts that’s even true.

 

~***~

 

Illumi’s skin erupts at the contact. Their mouths cloud together in a sloppy fog, like they’re trying to reach the empty spaces between them to fill each other up. Hisoka’s hand is clamped tight on Illumi’s waist, while the other stays on his jaw. It’s soft at first, gentle, without the manic thoughts flying out of his head. But then, it turns heavy. Their lips find each other, scraping each other’s skin with need. The kiss is careless and grating; with too much tongue and teeth, and not enough lips. “Open your mouth wider,” he orders, breathless. When Illumi obeys his command, Hisoka goes for the kill again, tucking his lips in the gap of Illumi’s mouth.

The kiss turns hungry, filled with so much longing that it leaves Illumi bare and whirred. Hisoka is touching him in various places, heating Illumi up in ways he’s never known before. Hisoka cradles Illumi’s head in his hand, as his tongue rolling together to form a moan at the back of his throat.

Illumi’s fingers dance along the length of Hisoka’s back, trying to figure out where to leave his secrets, where to place his fingers when he needs something to hold on to. It isn’t long before their bodies land in a heap on the bed, making Illumi shock himself into what’s happening. He suddenly pushes his arms forward, so that Hisoka is at least a foot away.

Should he be doing this? Should he continue when he knows fully well what the repercussions are? His skin is already burning with fervor, and Hisoka is making it worse when he begins to trace letters on his skin. He swallows the storm cloud down his throat, making it thunder in the pit of his stomach. Hisoka is warm, and his teeth have left bearings in Illumi’s mouth.

If Illumi continues, this will be official. His feelings are shown profusely for the other man to see. Hisoka can now take advantage of him, turn his bones around and arrange them to his liking.

If this doesn’t go on, Hisoka will back away. They will either stay friends or no longer talk.

Illumi isn’t sure which is worse: knowing that another person can hurt you – wholly, completely, with no remorse, or having to lose someone who has never been yours.

He decides in his head, taking it into action by pulling Hisoka down. He tilts his head at a certain angle, so that Hisoka’s lips are locked in his mouth. He feels Hisoka dig his fingernails into Illumi’s skin, and when Illumi arches his back, he can feel his name rolling off Hisoka’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is okay. Please comment if you want to say anything. I love reading your opinions!


	12. Love More

Chapter Twelve

 

October 2013

 

 

There’s always something about people that intrigues him, that makes his hands shudder back to life, as if the very thought of drawing another person’s features is enough to make his heart maneuver its way into his ribcage. His hands will automatically focus on getting all the things right, like the way the almonds of their eyes have shaped its way into their skulls; or how their eyebrows have constellated themselves into strands of clouds; or the yearning placed on their lips like glazed filling, sweetened by the thought of being touched. It’s such a funny thing – human contact.

He can never have it enough.

Which explains why he’s invited Illumi over to his class for a painting session, even though he’s already memorized every detail of Illumi’s face, even though he can draw Illumi with his eyes closed. He just wants to touch Illumi more.

The room Professor Wing has assigned for his students is big enough to fit over fifty people. With the easels and the boxes of paint and the glasses of paint brushes occupying the area, it’s getting a little harder to breathe, even though the class is only composed of fifteen people, Hisoka being one of them. Last week, Professor Wing told them to pick a subject for their activity next meeting. This week’s topic is about realism. Hisoka hasn’t touched that for a few months, so at first, he wasn’t entirely sure just what he could possibly draw. Then, Illumi’s face etched itself into his mind like a canvas, and he immediately called him for permission.

Right now, Hisoka is dragging the pencil across the page, making it drive its own path. He controls it enough to make a plotline, but that’s the only thing he can do without taking his eyes off Illumi.

However, Illumi’s clear hesitance is still evident. He looks like his mind is about to combust, his bones following the impact.

Illumi is seated in front of the easel, his posture straight, his hands fumbling in embarrassment. The tips of his ears are flushed red, the pulse on his neck is throbbing, and Hisoka can almost hear the loud thumping of his heartbeat from five meters away. Illumi’s hair is tied into a ponytail, strands of hair sticking out, curling like knobs on his forehead. His eyes are darting around the room, even though Hisoka has told him to focus on the wall. He figures it’s not working, because Illumi’s shoulders are stiff, like he’s just been hit.

When Hisoka finishes the rough sketch, he crosses over to Illumi, cupping the man’s face in his hands. “You look like you’re in an execution room,” he points out. “What’s making you so nervous?”

Illumi’s expression doesn’t change, but the faltering sound of his voice strikes Hisoka in the bone. “They’re staring at me,” he whispers, “like I’m some kind of art exhibit.”

Honestly, Hisoka agrees on that one. Illumi’s face is attracting a lot of attention, drawing the other artists to slither their eyes in his direction. The fair complexion of his skin glimmers under the fluorescent lights, the purse of his lips are curled like paper edges, making Hisoka wonder how that crease can ever compare to the one he’s tucked tight into his vision. No matter how Hisoka tries to memorize every inch of Illumi’s face, he can never really beat the real thing.

His hands are settled under the weight of Illumi’s jaw, forcing the man to look at him. Something flashes in Illumi’s eyes, the shadows of his pupils darkening. “Just look at me,” Hisoka orders, smiling, “like I’m the only person you can see.” He runs his thumbs over Illumi’s cheeks, smudging his skin with charcoal. “Relax. This isn’t going to kill you.”

Illumi snaps his eyes toward Hisoka’s, surprised at the statement. But almost immediately, it tampers down, burning in the coat of his chest. He nods slightly, taking Hisoka’s word for it.

When Hisoka walks back to the wooden stand of his painting, Illumi is already staring at him, his eyes wide and sloped with wonder. But his back is more relaxed, relieved of all the tension jagging his body. But when Hisoka concentrates back on getting everything in place, he notices the burning hole forming on his neck, where Illumi has placed a hickey the week before, where Illumi is looking at right now.

It makes his mind go hazy, and his fingers accidentally scratch over the paper, his fingernail tearing the edge. He sighs loudly and folds the sheet into the back, and he starts on another. This time, it’s a lot easier. He draws the smooth texture of Illumi’s neck once he’s finished with the face. He shades the lower region of Illumi’s collarbones, making him think of diving pools and hollow knuckles.

He touches the sketch with his finger, surprised at how much he’s drawn in the past half hour. When he glances up, Illumi is still staring at him, his face perfectly glistening in Hisoka’s vision. Then, he glances back down at his drawing, where the same Illumi is created. He carefully brushes his fingers over the sketch, stopping at Illumi’s lips, as if he’s touching the same thing.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka will be lying if he says that he actually knows how to make a pastry, because he doesn’t, and the oven will probably go berserk before he can ever get a taste. But the things he lacks – like knowing how to do the laundry, the grocery shopping, the cleaning up, the cooking, and everything else besides painting – can be found in Machi. So, when Machi suddenly bursts inside the room because she has smelled something sickeningly sweet and equally disgusting, he doesn’t look all that surprised.

“Are you sure you didn’t smell me?” Hisoka questions, watching her prop herself up the stool to drag her finger across the batter. She inserts it in her mouth and flinches when she swallows. “Is it that bad or are you imagining me in your mouth?”

Machi pushes away his second question and answers the first. “What did you put in this stuff?” Her face is contorted into obvious distaste. “It’s too sweet. You’re going to get diabetes by the time this is over.”

“Maybe I put something _else_ in it,” Hisoka says thoughtfully. He chuckles when she shoots him a glare. “All right, all right. I dipped a little sweetening I found in the cupboards. I thought it was going to help.”

“It’s not,” Machi says drily. “But it’s going to give you a toothache in the morning. Oh, and – ” She looks down at his boxer shorts. “ – maybe you’ll taste a little better down there, too.”

At that, Hisoka’s laugh deepens even more. Machi tries to ignore the sound, instead of taping it in the back of her eardrums, so that she’ll have something to listen to when she’s alone. She cradles the bowl of batter in her hands and shoves the remains down the garbage can. She places the bowl on the sink and grabs a new one from the counter. She prepares the mix as Hisoka settles himself on one of the stools, staring at her, the same strawberry-lipped smile pasted on his mouth.

“Well, maybe if you’d agreed to have sex with me, you would.”

Machi licks her bottom lip, forcing the spoon to travel across the bowl. That’s not true. Hisoka will back away from her the moment he realizes his mistake; he always does. He will cover himself with another lie, a bridge of fickle uncertainty that has always left her hanging. He pulls all the strings, and she’s being tugged forward. But whenever Machi is the one in control, Hisoka will dice the connection between them, so that when the fallout is hard enough to break, he won’t be caught in the pieces.

“You have Illumi for that now,” Machi says, dumping the bitterness out of her voice. It gets stuck in the wires of her throat. “I heard you got a lot of fun when he came over.”

Hisoka doesn’t look surprised. “We didn’t have sex,” he says. “Just kissed. Now, I’m wondering how the neighbors heard that.”

“Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they had super vision.”

“I have to pull the curtains, then. I don’t want them to see the show.” Hisoka grins at her.

Machi smiles back, and her bones suddenly feel lighter, as if the action is enough to get rid of the haziness gorging at her mind. When she’s finished with the batter, she grabs a portion with her finger and pushes it toward Hisoka for him to test it out. Hisoka presses his lips together before he scrapes the batter from her fingertip, making her shiver in response. Whatever resolve she has left has been diminished into particles, hammered down by the thought that she’ll only ever have this – and never him.

“Is it good or do I have to add more?”

Hisoka shrugs, but he’s already standing up. He flicks his finger against the batter and licks it off his skin, staring right at her. Machi looks away, swallowing the last of her self-restraint before it can walk out the door. She grips the spoon tightly, hoping that he doesn’t notice the uneven breathing of her chest, the way her eyes settle back on the bridge of his nose. She’s hoping that he doesn’t notice how she momentarily lessens the gap between them, like if their bodies are closer, their hearts will do the same thing.

She suddenly scowls. “Can we just finish this? Unlike you, I actually do my homework.”

Before she can get a tray, Hisoka has her by the arm. “Wait, you have a little stain . . . here.” He marks her cheek with dough, a grin nearly splitting his face in two. “Now, you’re all set.”

Machi blinks out the shocked expression out of her face. She touches her cheek and removes the batter, pushing it against Hisoka’s skin, instead. She laughs when Hisoka steers away from her, getting the bowl from the table. He hurls a handful at her shirt, and the dough sticks to the fabric like cotton candy. “That’s so not fair!” She squeals out, trying to steal the bowl away from him. Hisoka only brings it farther up his head, out of her reach. “Now, you’re just teasing me.”

Hisoka chuckles as he smears her face with the warmth of his fingers. “Not my fault you’re short.”

Glaring at him, she hides the smirk from her lips, tipping the bowl sideways. Hisoka accidentally drops it, but before it can fall to the floor, Machi catches it with her foot. She fills her hands with dough, the queasy feeling of it on her fingers making her face crumple. Machi shoves her hands at Hisoka’s face, and the man laughs, stepping back. He tries to grab her wrist, but he’s blinded with Machi’s fingers. His hands land on Machi’s hips, instead.

She almost jumps away from him, but Hisoka curls his arms around her like a rope, holding her close. She finally tears her fingers away from his face, and a laugh bubbles out of her throat. Hisoka’s eyebrows are white, his nose smudged, his eyes bleary. But his lips are gapped open, chuckling, as the situation sits on them like a heavy weight. Machi can feel his warmth beneath the fabric of his shirt, bursting like explosions on the tips of her toes. Everything about him makes her unbalanced, knocking the air out of her lungs before she can inhale them back. 

Machi cleans her hands with his shirt.

“Wow, thanks,” Hisoka mutters. “That was my favorite shirt, too.”

That’s a lie, too. He doesn’t have a favorite. Anything too close is buried down, shuffled under dirt to make sure he never has the chance to lose it.

She brushes the dough away from his face, clearing his vision. Their faces are too close. Their chests are fluttering like doves, their heartbeats conjoining into one sound wave. She pats his cheek. “It’ll wash off.”

“Well, I’m not doing the laundry,” Hisoka huffs out with a laugh.

“Oh, so I am?”

He looks down. “I like looking at you wet, that’s for sure.”

Machi rolls her eyes and tries to push him off of her, but he’s far too strong – and too heavy – to ever shove away.

And her feelings also have the same weight. 

 

~***~

 

Kikyo knows her son well enough to trust him in punctuality. He’s usually an hour early, dressed in formal clothes, his gaze fixed and determined on whatever task he has to carry out. In a way, Illumi has imitated his father in that aspect. Silva has always been wary of the time. His watch is practically attached to his body like a second skin. Without it, it seems like he’s lost track of his purpose, instead only of what’s inside the glass. Illumi is about to inherit the same family heirloom.

Unfortunately, the thought splutters out into the sky when Kikyo finds the living room empty, and she turns around to find her son fumbling for his jacket sleeves.

“Good evening, mother.”

Illumi looks disheveled and unsure. His eyes are wide with question, the mark engraved in between his eyebrows like a tattoo. His neck is crimson, and if he hasn’t covered it up with his collar, Kikyo could have had a closer glimpse of what has seemed like a scar. She sighs and helps Illumi fix himself, smoothening back the coiling strands of Illumi’s hair.

She inspects his hands and furrows her eyebrows when she sees a smudge of black ink, tracing the seams of Illumi’s fingers. She takes it in her hands. “What happened to your skin?” She asks, looking at his nails. “Did your pen spill over?”

Illumi looks confused for a second, but that is quickly erased. “Oh. Yes. I was taking notes when the pen decided to give my hand a bath.”

She narrows her eyes, her nose wrinkling at the smell. She drops his hand, and she folds her arms together. “Go clean it up. I don’t want my friends to think that my son is unhygienic.”

Illumi purses his lips, like he’s about to refuse, but he ducks his head and shuffles away.

Kikyo frowns as her eyes dart from the tip of his head to the curved region of his shoe. Even when he’s out of the room, she can still feel the smell burning in her nostrils. It attacks her throat with a vengeance. It coils around her head, its serpentine tongue hissing at the ridges of her mind. Somehow, the room is filled with it, clouded with whatever bitter scent Illumi has offered.

She proceeds to the bathroom to reapply her lipstick, but the putrid scent still lingers in the air – stale and plump for the taking. She watches her image form in the mirror. She rubs her tongue on the roof of her mouth. Maybe it’s the wine she’s been drinking, or maybe it’s the shadowed cobwebs springing from the corners of the house.

Kikyo is riding with Illumi in the car when the smell suddenly becomes stronger. It coals around her teeth, and before she knows it, she finally recognizes what it is.

She turns to Illumi, stunned, wondering how a mother can ever overlook when a child of hers is lying.

Illumi returns her gaze, as if he’s thinking the same thing.

~***~

 

It’s nearly midnight when Hisoka suddenly calls, the beep buzzing Illumi awake. He steers, catching the phone in his hands before it can fall off the edge of the bed. He cradles it near the shell of his ear. He listens to Hisoka’s husky hello on the other side, his heart pounding against the birdcage of his ribs when he finds his breath freezing over on his tongue.

“Hi,” he manages. “What are you doing awake?”

“Painting,” Hisoka says, chuckling. “Thinking of you. I’m continuing the activity from today. Did you know that your hair is literally the color of my floors when the lights are off?”

Illumi’s eyebrows come together. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Hisoka’s hoarse laugh whisks past his ear. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

Silence fills the line like a gorge. Illumi fiddles with the fabric of his sheets, trying to think of ways to make the conversation last longer. Hisoka is always the one who comes up with the topic. It’s not because Illumi doesn’t want to talk, he just doesn’t know what to talk about. He hardly thinks his evening with his mother’s friends is going to pass for a good conversation. His life is as boring as it is before he’s met Hisoka. He doesn’t want the man to think that he’s hanging out with someone who can’t even form a decent story.

Finally, Illumi starts with the only question he can think of. “Why are you calling me?”

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, “for not bringing you to the theater I told you about the other day. In the end, we couldn’t get out of my apartment.”

Illumi remembers that clearly, because his own mind has been stirred away from their original plans, replaced by the high color of Hisoka’s cheeks and the way his lips felt against his. But it’s not an event that he regrets; in fact, every memory he’s had, at that exact moment, has been completely drowned out. If anything, he wants to do it again – feel Hisoka’s teeth clench against his in desperation, trying to close in on each other’s mouth wounds; to have Hisoka pass his tongue over, as if every spilled secret has been transferred to his own teeth. Illumi blushes at the thought, tamping his hand over his neck, even though no one is there to see it.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind. We can do it some other time.”

“Then, can ‘some other time’ be tomorrow?” Hisoka slides in smoothly. Illumi can almost feel Hisoka’s smirk on his cheek.

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Illumi.”

“Goodnight,” Illumi whispers, and the call ends. He sets the phone at the bed stand, curling his body into a ball, until all of his feelings are stuffed in his chest. Illumi can hear the dead silence of the house, pinning against the walls like cinderblocks. He turns to the other side, secretly hoping that the voice he’s hearing is Hisoka’s, instead of the ghost that’s been living in his quarters.

When he brings his fingertips to his lips, he can smell the paint splattered on his nails, wondering how Hisoka has followed him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like the new chapter. I'll try to update more often. :)
> 
> Also, check out this awesome art made by an awesome person: http://persimrnon.tumblr.com/post/104799092384/character-studies-of-hisoka-illumi-and-machi-as


	13. Sparks

Chapter Thirteen

 

October 2013

 

 

“Now, press E.”

Hisoka squints. “This?”

“Yes.” Illumi can practically hear Hisoka’s struggle to get the chords right, his long fingers brushing over the keys in an attempt to paint it with his own skin. Although some say that a painter and a musician is somewhat alike, Illumi thinks otherwise; Hisoka as the living proof of his theory. Hisoka’s finger stretches to follow the music sheet in front of him, his golden eyes bustling for contact whenever he has to look up for the next chord. This is the first time he’s had to watch a man like Hisoka – who can perfectly paint a picture in a blind man’s perspective – mangle his bones like branches, in order to catch the correct note.

He flinches when the chords go haywire, ringing across the stadium like a lingering screech. “You pressed F,” he says. “It should have been a D.”

“Well,” Hisoka says drily, “if I were a music major, I would have gotten that exact grade.” He rests his shoulders back into place, almost as if they were being tugged out of their sockets. He cracks his knuckles one by one, cringing when one of his bones fleshes out the pain. “And let’s thank God that I’m not.”

They’re now in the music theater Hisoka has told him about the week before. The building is abandoned, draped in cobwebs and dust instead of the lush travesty of velvet curtains. But the electricity still works; Illumi saw the bill on the way in. The place is already six months late. He works on inhaling the scent in – the smell of wood smoke, the leather seats being eaten out by the soot, and the chiming rust of the music sheets on the piano. But despite the smell, he can hear the music clearly in his ears, banging the back of his eardrums like a punishment.

He’s never performed in front of an audience before. Hisoka is the first to ever hear him play. Even with that, Illumi can’t really consider Hisoka an audience, unless the man has a lot of people shifting inside him. It’s not because he doesn’t want to perform, he just never has the opportunity to do so. With his tight schedule and whatever his parents have planned for him in the future, he can’t even fit the time to breathe in his agenda.

“It’s not that hard if you take it slow. Try again,” he suggests.

Hisoka tries to play once more, but the piano says otherwise, as he presses the wrong keys. He bows his head in resignation, his shoulders shaking. Illumi blinks in surprise, reaching out for him. “Are you okay? Are you crying?” He almost grips the other’s shoulders for support, but when Hisoka lifts his head, Illumi can see the charming smile snaking past his lips. “Were you . . . were you laughing?”

Hisoka shakes his head, but his chest is quivering, laughter threatening to punch out of his throat. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just find kind of funny, I guess.”

Illumi’s face distorts into confusion.

“I mean, I really suck at this,” Hisoka explains, gesturing to the piano. “People have always said that I have good dexterity, that I could play any sport without much trouble, that I can rock climb to the highest mountain without ever needing help.” He laughs again. “And yet, I can’t even play a decent note.”

“Well,” Illumi says, “you can’t be good at everything.”

“Hmm,” Hisoka muses. “I guess not.”

“But,” Illumi continues, taking Hisoka’s fingers in the pool of his palms. He unfurls them one by one, his lips grazing the soft tips until his mouth is tucked at the core of Hisoka’s hand. He can feel his breath mingling with the warmth of Hisoka’s skin, making his chest disfigure itself into another shape, one he’s never felt before. He looks up, catches Hisoka’s eyes in between his fingers. The shells of Hisoka’s nails are covered in paint – red this time, matching the color of his hair. “You have this.”

Hisoka swallows, bringing his hand back. “I’d like to hear you play,” he announces, voice thick. “And I want you to imagine me in your head as you’re playing it. Let me be the music.”

That catches Illumi on his ankles, shackling them into place beside Hisoka’s words. He nods slowly, taking the sentence in until the letters are practically glutted in his throat. Hisoka scoots a little farther away to give Illumi space.

Illumi pulls his sleeves to his elbows, resting them at his side. Then, he begins to press a note, just to test it out. Illumi closes his eyes, his cheek burning when he feels Hisoka staring at him, waiting for the piano to speak his words for him. He imagines what Hisoka looks like, the image coaling his tongue like a candle. He pictures out the sky-rimmed color of Hisoka’s eyes, the meadow of his neck when Illumi wants to kiss it, the sharp cliff of his jawline, where Illumi has predictably fallen.

Then, his fingers page over the keys like a book, the letters coming to him now in a rush. The tempo is slow at first, but it regains its footing, finding the shapes of the words he wants Hisoka to hear. The music tucks itself in the center of his chest. It furls into a ball until Illumi can no longer breathe properly, and he opens his mouth, even though the piano is the one talking for him.

At one point, the melody changes, gaining speed. His fingers brush over the keys, his body following the movement his hands are having. He feels Hisoka shift beside him, but he’s too engrossed in what he’s saying to reach out, to curl his hands around Hisoka’s body, instead. He takes a deep breath as the pace slows down once again, catching his sentences, tucking them in the lake of his breast pocket.

When the song is finished, he pries his eyes open. His fingers start to the shake. He looks at Hisoka for approval, but the man already has the story printed on his lips, waiting for Illumi reply to him. “How was it?” he asks softly.

Hisoka presses his lips together, keeping the secret in his mouth for his teeth to shudder in. “It was beautiful. What was it?”

It takes Illumi a second longer to find the words. “It was At the Ivy Gate by Brian Crain.”

Hisoka’s palm curls on Illumi’s cheek. Illumi feels his own lock cracking open, releasing the warmth he’s been keeping to himself. It knocks on the door of his ribcage before it finally steps out, where Hisoka is waiting.

The man leans in, brushing their lips together. Illumi’s breath solidifies in his throat. “Will you . . .?” Illumi stammers. “Are you . . .?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hisoka whispers, easing his way into Illumi’s lips, numbing at the perfect fit. Their mouths pillow together. Hisoka opens his lips, Illumi following his actions. Their tongues glide together like ice, dancing and pinning and withdrawing until their breaths have practically been sewn on each other’s teeth.

Hisoka pulls away first, his chest heaving. “Do you know how to kiss?”

It’s a question Illumi doesn’t want to answer for the fear that Hisoka will flee from his inexperience. But the answer is already set in stone. “No,” he says hesitantly. “I don’t.”

“Good,” Hisoka replies. “Because then, I’ll teach you.”

 

~***~

 

“Open your mouth,” Hisoka orders, his voice hoarse.

They’re now in Hisoka’s room. Illumi is straddling him, his knees locked tight against both sides of his waist. His hands are reined on both of his shoulders, and his chest is trying to inhale the only oxygen left in the room. Hisoka’s mind is going haywire, his eyes darting from the plain corners of the walls. He’s not used to seeing something so boring, but his only consolation is the way Illumi is attached to his body, plastered against his skin like a second layer.

They’re mapping each other’s bodies, making a line out of every road they’ve encountered. Hisoka has already named a scar on Illumi’s collarbone, bruised and purple from his teeth. His hands are wiggling their way under Illumi’s shirt, asking for permission. Illumi only tilts his head to the side, so that they can kiss at an even deeper angle.

“Wait,” Illumi whispers, when Hisoka starts to unbutton his shirt. “I’m not – ”

Suddenly, Hisoka slides his hands down to his thighs. “Sorry,” he breathes. “Got a little carried away.”

Illumi’s mouth is diving on Hisoka’s neck.

“Okay,” Hisoka murmurs. “Fuck, that’s good.” He throws his head back. “Bite my neck.”

Illumi travels from his jaw to the scuffle on his jawline. Hisoka grips Illumi’s thighs, trying to rope his self-control back in place before it runs away. At this rate, with Illumi’s groin grinding against the hug of his jeans, with Illumi’s teeth scraping his neck, with his skin about to combust into flames, he’s not sure whether his self-control still actually exists. He can go so far without pushing Illumi down; if this keeps up, his urges will be taking over, blanketing his mind with the only person he wants.

The man pulls away, confused. “I think I . . . I think I bit too hard.”

Hisoka places a hand on the side of his neck, feeling a bruise form on his skin. It stings. Illumi’s teeth have left prickling bolts. But Hisoka finds himself encircling his arms around Illumi’s waist, bringing him closer. “Let me leave something as well, then.”

Illumi obliges, tilting his head to the side to reveal his ivory skin, gleaming under the dark shades of the ceiling. Hisoka brushes his teeth against the skin a first before he digs in. Illumi gasps softly, clutching Hisoka’s shoulders.

When Hisoka pulls away, he can see the gash clearly. It’s red and swollen, imitating the exact color of their lips. He cocks his head in the crook of Illumi’s neck, resting it there until the harsh beating of his heart has subsided.

If Hisoka were to be contented with anything, it would be this.

But he finds himself dragging his fingernail across the wings of Illumi’s back, pretending it’s a Sharpie. At the bottom ridge, he can almost imagine the words.

_Is it okay for me to be happy without you here?_

 

~***~

 

Machi and Hisoka are lying on his couch, with the television blasting Friends with Benefits through the screen. Hisoka’s legs are propped on his coffee table. Machi is curling her knees together, resting her chin on the knobs of her legs as she takes another bite of her orange chicken. Hisoka is chewing on a spoonful of rice when he turns to Machi, a question in between his teeth.

“So, you went out with another guy,” he says. “Why?”

She swallows her food. “How did you find out about that?”

Hisoka laughs. “You’d be surprised at how much Phinks actually tells me. He said something about the guy having little balls. I was too shocked to ask him about it. But did you guys have a threesome or something?”

Machi nearly chokes. “We did not!” She protests. “We didn’t even _kiss._ ”

“All right, all right. Jeez, I was just _asking_.” Hisoka chuckles. “So, what happened, anyway? Phinks wasn’t too thrilled about it.”

“When is he ever thrilled about anything?”

That is an easy question. Phinks likes beer, so anything with drinking will get him excited. He likes a little action, too, which explains why his knuckles always get boners when he has the urge to punch Hisoka in the face. But the top one on his list will be Machi. Even a simple night like this, where they’re watching a romantic comedy, Chinese food tucked on their laps – well, it’s going to give Phinks a free pass to nirvana.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean that he has enough balls to actually ask Machi out. And Hisoka guesses that’s why Phinks hates his guts so much. Hisoka can enjoy another night like this without ever saying it. Phinks, on the other hand, will have to carry an elephant on his shoulders just to get a grip of himself. He would know; he’s seen Phinks try.

“Maybe having sex with you,” Hisoka says smoothly. “Who knows?”

Machi scoffs, like the possibility is stupid. “My friend hooked me up on a blind date. It was nothing. We basically wasted our time in that old museum downtown.”

At that, Hisoka’s ears perk up. “Museum? You had a date in the museum?”

“Yes, we had a date in the museum. He didn’t even know who Titian was.”

Hisoka sighs. “Titian. But I’m sure he recognized Picasso.”

Machi stares at him blankly.

“Monet?”

He’s given another blank look.

“Leonardo Da Vinci?” Hisoka suggests.

Machi looks like she’s about to laugh.

“Raphael?” He presses.

Machi only shakes her head.

Hisoka backs away slightly, surprised. “Magritte? Giorgio Vasari? Johannes Vermeer? Michelangelo?”

“Not even Van fucking Gogh, Hisoka.” Machi laughs for real this time, taking in the stunned expression on his face. “He was clueless about the whole thing. I don’t even know why he wanted to go to a museum. He might as well have brought me to the bookstore.”

“Bookstore,” Hisoka repeats, tasting the word on his lips. He’s not pleased with the stale breath it leaves on the roof of his mouth. “Why would he bring you to the bookstore?”

Machi waves her hand. “He likes literature. He’s majoring in that particular course in another university.”

Hisoka laughs. “You should have asked for an artist, instead.”

“I already did.”

The response skids by the road of his ears like a car crash. He looks at Machi, but the woman is already diverting her attention back at the movie, her ears flushed, her cheeks red. The room is heavy, guarded like walls around the two of them. If only Hisoka is strong enough to prod through the foundation, to ridge the brick for a little light. The television is the only sound Hisoka can bear, but he can hear the faint thumping of their hearts, nestled in each other’s bones, the way it could have been.

Machi glances up. “I mean, I told my friend that I wanted ask artist,” she explains, even though the true meaning behind her words is clear. Once she lets loose a storm, not even she can shove it back. “But she couldn’t find anyone who was my type.”

Hisoka smiles a little. “I guess no one can be as good as me, then,” he teases. He stretches his legs over the coffee table, taking a sip of his iced tea.

“Well,” Machi answers, finishing the last bite. “I bet you can find someone who is. Can you recommend me a person?”

Hisoka pretends to think about it. The answer is throttled down his throat, a lump he can never seem to swallow. “Maybe I’ll magically meet someone.”

Once silence settles in, they concentrate on the movie. The air is damp, controlled by the answer that has fit snugly in between the two.

 

~***~

 

The thing about living in the Zoldyck household is the aggravating feeling of being caught. There’s only so much one can do before everyone else can know about it. There are security cameras slinked in the corners of the rooms, in the hallways, and heck, even in the garden behind the estate. Everything is closely monitored in order to prevent a break through, the chances of sneaking out, and worse, the secrets being slain in front, a prize no one in the family ever wants to hold again.

Milluki remembers the time he bought five more 3DS from an online store. The things have been on sale, so he couldn’t resist the temptation. His father found out one day later, and he sold the spare to his client’s sons. Milluki was devastated, and he planned to outwit Silva by going outside to buy them personally. But the driver sold him out to his father before they could even reach the gate.

That’s the other thing about being a Zoldyck: secrets are never safe in their lips.

Milluki is strolling in his room, carrying more boxes of anime figurines when he stops short. His heart nearly falls down to his belly, where the weight will undoubtedly multiply. Kikyo Zoldyck is in front of his computer, shaking. Her sobs are uncontrollable. Her shoulders are about to quiver their way out of their holes. Milluki slowly puts his box on the bed before he walks up to his mother, hesitation crossing his face.

“Mother?” he asks, poking her on the shoulder. “Are you . . . okay?”

Kikyo swerves around. Her face is drawn tight. Her lips are pursed unnaturally, bulging. The roundness of her eyes is blank, but they’re filled with tears. Milluki steps back, giving her space. It takes him a moment to think. He doesn’t recognize this woman. He doesn’t know who’s sitting in front of the computer, her chest convulsing in uneven sobs.

“Milluki,” his mother whispers. “You love me, don’t you? You won’t lie to me, will you?”

He blinks. “Um, yes? No?”

She sniffles hard. “It’s good to have a son on my side,” she murmurs, wiping at her face.

Milluki’s eyes widen with realization. She knows. But how much?

“Mother,” he says. “Shall I bring you back to your room?”

“No, no.” Kikyo shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. I just wanted to – ” A hiccup escapes her throat. “ – make sure.”

“Um, okay.”

Kikyo suddenly gets to her feet. She cups Milluki’s face, her eyes thoughtful. “I love my son very much,” she whispers, and then she trots out of his room.

Even Milluki knows who he’s referring to – and the prospect is definitely not him.

He settles on the chair, staring hard at the keyboard before he finally glances up. He closes his eyes, gripping his baggy pants. On the screen is the security mainframe. Kikyo has been finding someone, even though she has no idea who exactly she’s been looking for.

Milluki closes the screen and makes a new password, one his mother will never figure out. He returns to his figurines, his solace, and wonders whether he should tell Illumi and betray their mother, or whether he should rat Illumi out for a chance of Kikyo’s real love.

He tears open the box with a cutter, staring blankly at the figurines, made of plastic, colored by someone else, so easily broken.

He sends a text to his brother, a signal – because he doesn’t want his brother to become the same toy who’s been destroyed before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter, my friends. Thank you for the support! :) Tell me what you think! ~


	14. Beach Baby

Chapter Fourteen

 

October

 

 

Hisoka’s fingers roam over the canvas like a phoenix, slashing its wings across the paper until the forest has burned down. It airs through the page, swiftly forming dark shades, his eyes switching from left to right to make sure that he’s gotten the direction correctly. Sometimes, his fingers paint by themselves, especially when he’s using charcoal. It’s even worse when he decides to dip his hands in paint and splash them across the walls, like he’s burning his own sky. Machi will usually come in after the commotion is over, never during, which he never understands.

He knows that Machi will feel his senses convulsing, spreading across his back like a hawk, springing its way through his fingers until he’s magically invincible. And maybe that’s it – maybe that’s why Machi knows that she should never walk in on him while he’s painting something. When he gets in the mood of things, nothing – and no one – can stop him. Not even if the apartment falls down around him.

The canvas is streaked with black. It occupies the entire page, marking its own world like a map. Some of the shades are lighter than the other, but most of them are burned through. It’s a hole of shadows, corroded and unsure whether it should swallow its darkness or spit it out. Hisoka licks his bottom lip, his chest heaving as he rests his palm on the page and ducks his head.

He tried to draw Illumi, with the man’s hair cascading around the canvas like river swifts. He wanted to show the twilight of his eyes – murky and deep, barked with secrets Hisoka can’t ever swallow down his throat. When he tasted the man, he felt the words clomp down his teeth, making a home out of his cavities. But even with that fact, he can’t seem to get enough. He wants to eat more of Illumi’s sentences, swallow each passing thought until he’s choking with them.

It’s masochistic of him. But isn’t that this is all about in the first place?

Unfortunately, the painting doesn’t turn out well. The colors are all over the place, and what’s funny is that he’s only using one palette. He’s tried the purple color he bought a day before, but once he’s experimented with it, it only comes out as that – an experiment. He’s never felt so lost in his life. It’s just one painting, and the project will be due next week. How much time does he have to delay to get one painting right?

He smears the canvas with his fingers before he stretches them out, ripping the paper off its clip. Even without the painting in front of him, he can still see it clearly, as if the paper is still stranded there on the easel. The hair is shorter, cut, its shape attached to the circle of the man’s head. His eyes aren’t quite as deep, but Hisoka can see the pages strewn on them. And on his forehead is a cross, painted lightly, but still visible. The painting looks too familiar. It almost seems like he’s seeing the real thing, breathing the real scent, instead of the bitter charcoal that’s staining his face.

If Machi were here, she would have dragged Hisoka away from the easel. She would have thrown the paper into the trash before he can ever finish it. But Machi is sleeping in the other room. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and he hasn’t even slept yet. Dammit.

He snaps the Sharpie from the pocket of his jeans and jots down a sentence at the bottom of the wooden stand. The Sharpie is black, stained and angry and hurled.

Hisoka frowns, kicking the easel away from him like a disease. Then, he stands up from the stool and strides back to his bed. He can smell Illumi’s scent under the covers, and he wonders why it suddenly feels rotten and acidic on his tongue.

_I still remember you clearly, like you’ve never been gone._

 

~***~

 

For some reason, every time Illumi gets on a train, it’s always crowded. He’s on his way to the park Hisoka told him about, where the atmosphere is perfect, musical, vibrating with its own notes on a blank sheet. And because Hisoka described the place so clearly, he agreed to go. Unfortunately, he has to take a train, because going there by cab will require a longer travel. Hisoka is impatient, Illumi doesn’t want his ass to get stamped on the seat, and so Illumi has decided to go for the other option. Honestly, both choices are hideous.

The people are pressed against him. He’s holding on to one of the steel bars on the ledge. His body is moving with the motion of the train. His knees are about to give in, and he feels like his chest is holding in the breath he’s been eating. The panic creeps up his chest, crawling in between the bars of his ribcage like a vine. Behind him, a girl is staring, her wide eyes the size of an airplane. Illumi averts his gaze to the floor, wondering whether the girl has recognized him, or he’s just being paranoid. Right now, his heart is squeezing, threatening to bolt out of its lock.

The girl taps him on the shoulder. Illumi can see her reaching for the phone in her pocket. “Are you – ”

Before the girl can finish her sentence, Illumi pushes his way past the crowd, hoping that the next stop will be close. He can’t handle it anymore. He’s about to lurch whatever he’s eaten for breakfast. He’s nearly at the sliding doors when he suddenly trips, throwing his body backward in an awkward position. He expects the ground to connect to his body, but he lands on something softer, instead.

He snaps his head to apologize, but he finds himself looking at Hisoka himself. The man is holding a grin on his face. His hand is sliding up Illumi’s thigh. The sun is sitting on his shoulders, and Illumi suddenly feels smaller.

“Do you always fall on strangers like this?”

Illumi swallows the panic down his throat. “Only you.”

Hisoka cocks an eyebrow. “It better be. Just look at how many people are staring.”

He looks around and thinks that Hisoka is right. The people aboard are trying to direct their eyes somewhere eyes, but somehow, their urges get the best of them. Illumi hides his face beneath his hair. He almost corks his head in the wave of Hisoka’s neck, but that will probably attract more attention. Illumi snags Hisoka’s hand away from his thigh. “Maybe if you can control yourself for a moment . . .”

“You’re the one who fell on top of me,” Hisoka points out. “If anything, I’d say that it’s your fault.”

“Do you want me to throw these people off the train, then?”

Hisoka laughs. “I’m not sure if you can, but I’d like to see you try.”

Before his mind can even come to a decision, Illumi pulls Hisoka in for a quick kiss, and the train comes to a stop at the next station. The other passengers stare at them briefly before the doors finally open. They bustle out of the train, leaving Hisoka and Illumi and some others behind. Illumi draws away. It takes him a moment before his throat finally works, the engine revving back to life inside him.

But he still can’t force the words out of his lips, and it gets stuck in between the clamps of his teeth. Hisoka only smiles, and Illumi knows that Hisoka has already heard him.

 

~***~

 

Illumi is making a crappy flower crown when Hisoka finishes his second sketch for the day. He hasn’t drawn this freely since last week, since he’s been so engrossed in the new project that his fingers couldn’t even recognize a pencil. But now, they’re working across the page, tracing the outline of the trees, the patterns of the leaves, the spikes of grass surrounding them like armies.

They’re sitting in the middle of the park. Shadows are swimming over them, blocking the sunlight from striking their scalps. Hisoka watches the branches sway, leaving sunlit marks on the area. It’s impossible to draw that when he only has a pen and a pencil, but he engraves the picture in his mind for future use, already imagining it on the canvas. Illumi is there, too, with his hair dressed in flower petals and weeds.

“Do you like drawing everything?” Illumi asks. He’s trying to attach the loop into the hole, but the thin cut only glides past the frame. “Or just things that catch your attention?”

“Either?” Hisoka gives. He sprawls his back on the ground, placing his sketchbook on the flat plain of his belly. “Both?”

“So, which is it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t really tell.” He extends his hand forward. The leaves are rustling above him, but the sunlight burns on his features, hocking a glimpse. “There are things I can’t draw, of course. The sun is an example. I can’t formulate the colors. I only have a sketch. But there are also things I want to draw so badly that my bones literally break.” He props himself on an elbow. “Did you know that I broke my fingers at one point?”

Illumi glances up from his masterpiece. “No, I did not.”

“Well, it happened.” He stretches his fingers, grinning. “I was working excessively. In fact, I was pushing myself so much from just one painting that I didn’t sleep for days. After the fifth night, I fainted in the middle of red paint. Machi – that girl I told you about – found me a few hours later.” He laughs. “She thought I was dead because the paint had dried, so it looked like blood.”

“She must have been really worried.”

Hisoka shrugs. “She was. Then again, she always is. So, she brought me to the hospital. I turned anemic for a few days, but it wasn’t a big deal. The best part?” He folds his fingers together. “My fingers didn’t even break from painting too much. They hit the tin can, and I crushed them under my weight. I had to wear a gauze for weeks.”

Illumi’s trying hard not to smile, but even Hisoka can see the crack spilling over. Honestly, it was the most ironic situation he’s ever been in. He kept on laughing about it until Machi finally bonked him on the head, telling him to cut it off. Even with the violence, the laughter still unfolded from his throat.

When he pokes Illumi on the stomach, the smile finally appears, and a laugh follows.

Illumi tucks the crappy flower crown over Hisoka head. “You are ridiculous,” he states.

Hisoka grins. “Now, isn’t that why you’re here?”

Illumi shakes his head, but even Hisoka knows that’s part of the truth.

 

~***~

 

“You don’t have the hands of a painter,” Illumi suddenly announces.

Hisoka glances up from his collection of shells. “The paint wasn’t enough for you?”

Illumi shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. Your hands . . . they aren’t rough or callous. They’re still soft.” He hesitates for a moment. “Is it supposed to be soft?”

They’re in a beach this time. The waters are galloping across the shore, hugging the white sand, as if they were a part of them. A dock is built, where a few ships and boats are floating, roped around the base of the wood, so that they won’t saunter away. Near the sultry waters, a jagged cliff is surrounding the beach, its rocky tips pointing north, directing the ocean where it should go. Leading to the beach is the boardwalk. Streetlamps are guarding the rocks, dividing the sidewalk from the ocean. People are already dumping their blankets on the sand, propping their umbrellas for a shade.

Hisoka’s feet sink into the sand. His jeans are rolled up to his knees. He bends down to get a pink seashell, holding it against his cheek. “This thing is softer than my hands,” he murmurs, rubbing the shell against his skin. It leaves a smear of sand near the burns of his face. “See?” He hands it over to Illumi, who outstretches his arm out of curiosity.

“It is, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Lotion, Illumi. I put lotion.” Hisoka chuckles. “I don’t know. I don’t take care of my hands very much. Maybe the paint is what covers them up?”

Before Illumi can respond, Hisoka runs toward the back until the waves hit the folded portion of his jeans. He waits for it to subside, grazing back into the ocean where they’ve made a home. Seagulls are flying overhead, cawing as they pass by the ocean. He can smell the salty scent of it biting at his nose. But it’s refreshing, and he cranes his head back to take it all in.

“You’ve been here a lot before?” Illumi steps beside him.

“Hmm. Sometimes. I don’t usually take trips outside. I spend most of my time painting. Rarely, I buy new records in music stores. Machi helps me buy paint when the time arises. I’m actually very stubborn when it comes to colors. It’s going to take me hours before I find one that I like.”

“You . . .” Illumi looks at the beach, avoiding his gaze. “You spend a lot of time with Machi.”

Hisoka shrugs. “We hang out. It’s not a big deal.”

But Hisoka can tell that it is – to the both of them. Illumi’s jealousy is practically scrawled on his forehead, no matter how many times he scrubs it off. Machi, on the other hand, . . . they’ve been hanging out for as long as Hisoka can remember. But neither of them has put a label to it. Hisoka definitely doesn’t, and Machi is silently agreeing with him.

Because once you put a name to it, it becomes so much more than you’ve ever intended it to be.

“Are you . . . Are you guys close?”

“I guess you can say that.” He smiles a little.

If they spend Friday nights watching romantic comedies, while the other is wishing that the man beside him were feeling the exact same thing, is called close, then Illumi’s got that in the bag. If they buy each other food when they pass by a good restaurant, is considered as friendship, then Hisoka can’t deny that at all. If the girl continuously saves his ass every damn time he gets a little crazy, is in the closeness range, then that’s not wrong, either. But every time Machi gets in the same proximity, every time she lessens the gap between them, he always takes three steps back. It’s as if he’s repulsed by the fact that she’s on the same sentence, when she shouldn’t even be on the page.

“Why? Are you jealous?”

Illumi blinks at him, and then he shifts, so that Hisoka can’t see his face. “It’s not really my place to say anything. I don’t even know why I’m asking.”

Hisoka steps closer, poking his head against Illumi’s shoulder. “It’s because you want me,” he says, smirking, “all to yourself.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughs. “You’re mad.” He walks back to the lapping shore, soaking his feet. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

Illumi turns to him, his face perfectly blank. But Hisoka can see it – the tiny breach that he’s created. “Why would I be mad,” he says, “when this means nothing to you?”

“Well,” Hisoka says, narrowly coming closer. When Illumi doesn’t back away, he takes a wider stride. He looks down at Illumi, a challenge, a promise, pulling him by the string he’s thrown for Hisoka to hold on to. He’s not planning on letting go. “Who ever said that it doesn’t?”

 

~***~

 

Machi is trying to hook her fingers over his shoulders, latching on. She’s sitting on the table – the counter marble top – when the man suddenly loops her legs around his waist. His bulge expands against the fabric of her shorts. She watches him open his mouth in surprise before he closes them again, like a fish. His hands are hot against her hips. His nails dig in to her skin in an attempt to keep her close.

An hour earlier, she’s been drinking with her friends. She’s already drowned seven shots of vodka when this guy appears, wearing the same strawberry scent she’s familiar with. Drunk, with her state of mind distracted by the color of booze and the sharp tingling of her nostrils, she throws herself at him. And since he’s attracted and interested, he brings her home.

But the more she inhales the smell, the more it feels wrong. It’s not as sweet. It’s not as strong. It suddenly turns rancid, like a vomit that’s been sitting too long on the floor. Her nose is nuzzling against the side of his neck, as his lips blotch out a path on her collarbone. Her eyes clear out the haziness from her vision. She looks down to find him glancing up. His eyes are brown, muddy. His lips aren’t quite as pink. And the sweet strawberry scent – it’s all gone.

She uncurls her legs around his waist and pushes him off. “No,” she says thickly. “Get away.”

The man furrows his eyebrows together. “But you said – ”

“I know what I said,” Machi interrupts, wrapping her arms around herself. “And I changed my mind.”

The man rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I went all the way here, dammit.” He groans. “Whatever. Fuck you and your shit.” He slams through the door, leaving Machi to fend for the smell that lingers.

She gets her ground when she clasps her hand around the edge of the table, her own vomit rising to her throat. She rushes to the bathroom, throwing open the lid. She heaves the alcohol she’s taken into the opening, backing away from the smell.

Machi gathers her knees to her chest and – finally – she begins to sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me your opinions, my loves! ~


	15. Nirvana

Chapter Fifteen

 

October 2013

 

 

The thing about being a prosecutor is how literal the word actually is.

Silva Zoldyck is sitting in front of the witness stand, his back turned from the people participating in the case. The jury is holed up in the corner, watching him prominently. Judge Matt Houlihan is cracking his fiftieth nut of the day when the defendant starts to fidget, the sound of shells breaking and sweat forming on the glare of his temples starting to dawn on him.

Bored, he swipes his handkerchief from his pocket and proceeds to the front, handing it over to the man, who’s been sweating ever since he was put on the witness stand. But Silva knows just how lonely that place is. Silva can barely fit in there. It’s cramped and fleshed out with too many bloody hands. Right now, the man inside is only adding to the stain, grating his shackles against the wooden texture of the box.

“I don’t want to be here,” the defendant says, his voice gurgling like water being sent down the pipe. It’s annoying and pitiful to hear. He hesitantly accepts Silva’s handkerchief with both hands, since they’re tied by a painful glint of rusty silver. Silva subconsciously brushes the gap where the key is being inserted. “I’m not guilty.”

That’s what everyone says. Silva can practically hear everyone think the same thing. Every prisoner in the world isn’t guilty, because that’s how they want the world to see them. No one desires to be locked up in jail, wearing the same ugly jumpsuit for the rest of your term. No one wants to ground coffee in between their teeth, either, but Judge Houlihan is doing nearly the same thing.

The sound of his teeth slicing open the rough package crackles in the courtroom, like a spine that is continuously breaking. “Can we get on with it, counselors?” Judge Matt says impatiently, dropping the two shells in front.

The defense attorney nods and yanks his client forward, ignoring the way Silva is eyeing him. “Get a grip,” he hisses. “Just get this over with.” Then, he comes back to the table and slumps down, shaking his knees against the desk.

Silva turns to the defendant with a smile. “I’m sorry you have to be here today.” Honestly, he doesn’t know why the man is even on the stand. As a rule, defense attorneys don’t put their clients in front. They’re so easy to break. One mangle of a finger, and their lips will crack open, parched and powdered with the truth. Lucky for the defendant, Silva doesn’t believe in the truth. There is only a story – and it’s up to him to make it sound believable.

The defendant nods.

“Are you aware that you’re here because you’re accused of murdering your wife?”

He swallows thickly. “Yes.”

“How did your wife die?”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Where was she when you found her?”

The defendant bows his head, unable to look at Silva – or anyone – in the eye. “In our car,” he says softly. “She was lying against the steering wheel. It was honking too loudly, so I went to check out what was happening.” Tears start to kiss his cheeks, trailing down his jawbone. “When I found her,” he chokes, “she was already dead.”

This is the hardest part: trying to convince the jury that the defendant is lying.

“It said in the autopsy report that your wife had a lot of fresh scars on her wrists. Can you say anything about that?”

“Objection,” the defense attorney says. “Speculative.”

Judge Houlihan bites his nut. “I’ll allow it.”

“She was suicidal. Depressed. She used to cut herself a lot.”

“Have you ever seen her cutting?”

He nods. “Once or twice.”

“Have you ever touched any of her blades?”

The defendant shakes his head profusely, as if the idea is discarded before it can even settle in. “Oh, no. No. I would never touch it. When I found her, I couldn’t even _look_ at it.”

Silva lifts an eyebrow. “But weren’t your fingerprints also found in the blade? Now, why would it be there if you’ve never touched it, Mr. Farer?”

The defendant blanches, rattling his shackles against the wooden divider. “I – I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Do you love your wife, Mr. Farer?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“If you loved her, then how come you never stopped her from harming herself?” Silva asks.

The defense attorney is suddenly on his feet. “Objection!”

“Overruled,” Judge Houlihan says, munching on his nuts.

“I don’t know,” Farer chokes. “I don’t know. I just loved her too much. I only wanted what was best for her.”

“And what is the best for her?”

The defendant raises his head, his eyes red, his throat clogged so tightly around a noose that Silva’s own breath gets stuck in the line.

“She wanted to die,” he whispers. “She wanted to kill herself. How could you stop the one you love when the only thing she wanted was death?”

In that instant, the whole courtroom goes into an uproar, the sound deafening, booming against the chilly walls of the courtroom. Judge Houlihan is banging his gravel, ordering the courtroom to settle down. But once the sentences are strewn high in the air, not even the defense attorney can pull it back in his mouth. Farer is sobbing in front, hiding himself from the rapture that’s humming around the walls like a storm.

The defense attorney is white, his lips chapped, drained of all the words he could say to make this all right. But Farer just blurted out his confession, and even Silva knows without a doubt, who will win. He observes Farer’s crouched body, the bony tips of his spine baring their teeth against the thin fabric of his jumpsuit – the clothing he will wear for the rest of his life.

And then, he turns away, walking back to his seat. He shuffles his papers into one pile and inserts them in his briefcase. He can hear the jumbling noise of the courtroom, the gasps of women who are part of the jury. And he wonders how he can still remember that day clearly, as if the memory is tucked in his breast pocket.

For a second there, he almost distorts the image of Mr. Farer being carried out of the courtroom, harshly tugged by the guards through the double doors.

For a second there, he almost sees a completely different face – the son he’s failed to protect.

 

~***~

 

Illumi is obviously surprised to find Hisoka waiting for him outside of the doors of his classroom. He stops short, nearly blocking the passageway when Hisoka pulls him forward, an action so sudden it knocks the breath out of his throat – and right into Hisoka’s lips. He supposes this is one other thing he likes about kissing this man: Hisoka always tastes sweet, a brash texture of strawberries that leaves his tongue twisting in a knot. Hisoka draws away, the smile still plastered on his face like a perfect picture.

“What are you doing here?” Illumi asks, bringing his notebook closer, armor he can use to protect himself from whatever pain will come next.

Last weekend, when they were at the beach, Illumi took several steps backward, thinking that he didn’t want to get involved in the game. But Hisoka had lured him back in, hooking his finger around Illumi’s belt hoop to stop the man from leaving. Illumi can admit now that he was only jealous. Hisoka has had plenty of girls before, women he’s never met, and women he doesn’t plan to. But he can tell that Machi is different; she holds a respectable height in Hisoka’s stature Illumi can’t ever replace.

Before he can slap the feeling down, it bubbles in his throat and folds out of his tongue, a present Hisoka accepts before he can even give it away. Starting then, Illumi has heightened his guard. He doesn’t want Hisoka to catch the stars from his lips, even though it’s not falling. But somehow, Hisoka still manages to rocket it out of there.

“I don’t have classes, so I thought I’d fetch you.” He lifts his own notebook, clean and untouched. “To study.”

Illumi stares at him blankly. “Study,” he repeats. “Since when did you study?”

“Since I realized that you probably did, and I decided that I want to do it with you,” Hisoka replies, slinging an arm over Illumi’s shoulder, hooking him in place. “To the library it is, then.”

Illumi tries to escape his hold, but Hisoka is stronger. “I don’t think you want to study at all,” he accuses. “You’re just going to bother me like you always do when I’m trying to do something important.”

Hisoka smiles. “Now, what could be more important than me?”

He leads Illumi out of the hallway and into the glaring sunlight, paving the cemented roads with gilded rocks. As they walk toward the library, their bodies slinked together and confined in sweat and arms and skin, Illumi tries to take Hisoka’s question as a challenge. He thinks of the others things that matter more to him, that can move Hisoka down a notch from his withheld position.

But the more he takes a step, the more he comes up blank.

 

~***~

 

And of course, Illumi is right. Hisoka never had plans for studying. In fact, he’s never studied in his whole life, and he’s not about to start now. Instead, he’s fingering the leather bound side of a textbook, reciting the name in his head until it repeats in a chorus. Illumi is in front of him, flipping over to another page as he glances up at Hisoka, his eyes drawn with a question. _What is he going to do?_

At the moment, Hisoka doesn’t know, either.

They’re in the back section of the library, where the shelves are packed with psychology books. The curtains are drawn to the side, sifting the light from its glassed windows. Hisoka can see the smacked wooden details on the edges of the windows, rimming it close. Beyond the boundary, there is a rustle of leaves and branches, knocking against the glass. Hisoka notices how Illumi is following the jagged pieces of the sunlight, with the leaves blocking it from view.

“See anything interesting?”

“The sun,” Illumi announces. “I feel like it’s different.”

Hisoka memorizes the opening of Illumi’s mouth, the slight gap in between his upper and lower teeth, like he’s trying to catch the light in his mouth for keeping.

“Different how?”

Illumi stares at it for a little longer before he finally looks down. “I don’t know.” His voice sounds off, unsure. Hisoka wants to tug on the string and let loose the secret he’s been eating in his teeth. Illumi starts for the other section. Abnormal psychology.

The aisles are big enough for two people, but Hisoka keeps on towing along Illumi’s trail. Every time Illumi takes a step forward, Hisoka widely narrows the gap, not wanting to give Illumi enough space to think. He wants Illumi’s head to be wielded with thoughts so wild that not even Hisoka can find his own words to speak.

“It’s psychology,” Hisoka says, propping his arm over the bookshelf. Illumi glances at him briefly, and then he concentrates on his book again. “You can understand that without reading anything.”

He would know because he didn’t. He passed the class with a perfect score, even though he never opened the book required, and he spent the week before finals, trying to see whether blue was happily blended with black or the colors just didn’t want to have sex on the palette. Considering that Illumi is the one with the high GPA, Hisoka is sure that the man will have no trouble passing the exam.

“You can because you’re crazy,” Illumi points out.

Hisoka laughs. “Aren’t we all?”

Illumi shakes his head as he flips to another page. “I thought you were going to study.”

“I am.”

He lifts a delicate brow. “Oh? And what is that?”

“ _Who_ ,” Hisoka corrects, placing his hand on top of the page Illumi is reading. That causes the man to stare at him, a challenge Hisoka will most likely win. “I want to study you,” he continues, closing the book. “I want to know the number of breaths you take every minute, and I want to swallow them in between my lips.” He stops, tilting his head. “I want to know your heartbeat, how much it weighs.”

“Are you going to sell me to the black market?”

“Shut up. I’m trying to be poetic.”

Illumi laughs.

“I want to know what your lips taste like, if they’re different at a certain time of the day.”

Illumi looks somber. “I don’t think you’d like my morning breath.”

Hisoka ignores the comment and links their fingers together, like chains. “I want to know your body, every inch of it, and I want to . . . to . . .” He glances at the books, lost. The words are already pinned to his throat, unable to unhook themselves to soar into his tongue. He scrunches his face and looks down. “I just want to kiss you.”

“You didn’t need to be poetic for that,” Illumi says, and he folds his fingers over Hisoka’s sleeves, urging and desperate for contact. “So, do it.”

Hisoka does. He dips his head, his lips craving, shelling themselves in the gap of Illumi’s mouth. He presses himself closer when he startles at the perfect fit. His hands are on Illumi’s waist, sensing his knees buckling underneath him. He holds Illumi in place, so that when one of them starts to burn, the other will follow. His fingers knot like roots against Illumi’s shirt, his chest tightening like book binds. He opens it eyes to find Illumi’s eyelids staring back at him.

His lips land on the nape of Illumi’s neck, burying his face in the other’s skin. Suddenly, Illumi lets go of his book, and it flutters down the floor. Hisoka catches a glimpse of a picture – old and rotten, slid in between the pages. He watches as the picture unwraps itself like a present, the ribbon sliding loose from the box. Hisoka can see a boy in front, his lips locked tight into a frown, his silver hair snapping on top like wild teeth. He bends down to grab it for a closer look, but Illumi is already reaching for it, snapping the book shut before Hisoka’s fingers can even touch the pages.

Illumi stands upright, his back and shoulders stiff.

“What was that?” Hisoka asks, trying to pry the book away from him, but Illumi shies away.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “It’s nothing.”

Hisoka’s throat is thick, marked with one real question. “Then, why are you hiding it?”

“I’m not,” Illumi insists. “It’s nothing important.”

But Hisoka can hear the real answer buzzing in his ears. _It’s nothing you should know._

He stares at Illumi hard, and the man fidgets, looking at anywhere but Hisoka. He nods slowly, accepting. “Okay. Sure. I don’t really care about it, anyway.”

Illumi finally gazes back, his eyes soft. But he quickly schools his expression into a perfectly blank stare.

Hisoka can feel the distance between them as imperishable as a steel wall. It grows like iron, caught in between the roots of trees before it finally snaps its teeth and bites hard. He mentally takes a step back, his own heart following the action, so that when Illumi unlocks his jaws and dives straight for Hisoka’s chest, he won’t be killed in the process.

But he still walks toward Illumi, as if the very thought of widening the distance is enough to murder him. He presses his lips against the damp skin of Illumi’s neck. And they both know what the other is thinking.

_Why are you lying to me?_

 

~***~

 

“You’re not in a very good mood.” Machi suddenly materializes beside him, placing her arms over the rusty railings. “Did you have a fight with your new boyfriend?”

Hisoka is brooding. He inhales a wave of smoke, letting it settle inside his lungs before he takes in another. The taste is bitter and rancid, like he’s fixing coal for breakfast. He sets his jaw as he looks below, watching as the people on the street walk carelessly down the road. “Would you know if I were lying to you?”

It’s clear that the question catches Machi off guard. “I guess?” She lifts a brow. “But when are you ever telling the truth?”

To both of their surprise, Hisoka laughs. “You’ve got a point.” After a few moments, he turns sober, his eyes cold and blank as they stare at the butt of the cigarette. It’s nearly six in the evening. And the color of the sky matches the sultry blue of the cigarette stub, the color of smoke dissipating like silver wings. “I feel like he’s hiding something,” Hisoka admits. “And he doesn’t want me to know what that is.”

“Well, _obviously_ , because he’s hiding it.” Machi smiles at him, but Hisoka’s far too dazed and off to return it. She sighs quietly, connecting her fingers together. “It’s probably nothing, Hisoka. I mean, people keep secrets all the time. They’re not going to kill you.”

Hisoka smiles sadly, tossing the cigarette down the building. “That’s what he said, too.”

The cigarette bumps over a ledge before it can stumble down the floor, but it regains its flighty balance and manages to land below. For some reason, Hisoka can still the smoke, rising up to meet the course of his lips. He turns to Machi. She’s staring at him, eyes dawning on his mouth.

She looks away. “There are just some things you don’t tell people, Hisoka. There’s really nothing you can do to stop it.”

Hisoka knows that, because he’s been keeping the same secret tied to his chest for years. He’s wanted to offer it to her as a sacrifice, but he bolts his lips together, forming the same lock. She’s right; there are some things that don’t need to be spoken aloud. But even after years of showing it, she still can’t figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is all right. May add some triggers when I get to chapter 16. I love hearing your opinions, so if you have anything to say about the chapter, it'll be appreciated! :)


	16. Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback. :)

Chapter Sixteen

 

September 2011

 

 

It only takes one finger to play a tune, but it takes his whole being to make music. Illumi’s fingers are straddled over the keyboard, his bones ready to take flight whenever another note spreads its wings into the air. The curtains are drawn to the side. The sunlight is seeping unto the carpet floors, kissing its soft strands. The music room isn’t really a music room, not when his mother refuses to accept that playing the piano is more than just a hobby. Large bookshelves are placed on each spare corner of the wall. It’s at least ten feet tall, which requires a ladder if ever they need to obtain the law books at the top. This is a daily reminder of what Illumi is required to do – which is to please Kikyo Zoldyck, even if that means he needs to break his fingers.

Outside, the garden is lush and captivating, catching the sun’s mouth just when it’s about to open its hinges. The rose bushes are blooming, tempting him to take a step forward and fall into its open lips. But instead, he stays steady on the stool, his fingers grazing the piano like a brush. There is a note sheet spread out in front of him, with the composition of Fidelio by Beethoven fluttering like a wing.

His bones contract as it takes a step, slowly, and then gaining pace. He doesn’t have enough practice to actually perform it correctly, but he manages not to slip. Each note sends a vibration in the air, casting its response to the light hitting the windows. He watches the sun smile at him, mocking. It’s saying: _What are you doing in a room when your siblings are out there playing?_

As if to reply, Illumi stands up and walks over to the glassed walls. Milluki is holding a ball in his hands, with Mike stretched out in front of him. He passes the ball over to the large Doberman, but Mike only stares at the object before gracefully setting himself on the grass. Kalluto is sitting, crossed legged, plowing the grass in her fingers. She spreads her hands across the pile. Dandelions are growing around her, as if she were summoning their presence with her skin.

Killua is carrying Alluka on his back, her legs spindled around his waist like a thread. She clutches on to him to make sure that she doesn’t fall, but Killua’s fingers are gripping the underside of her thighs. A smile is plastered on his face like a trophy, one Illumi wants to keep in his pocket, even after it rots. He lifts his hand to the wall, as if he can reach past the boundary between them, as if he can spread his titanium wings and slash the glass, just to touch his brother.

But his feet are heavily rooted to the carpet floors. He looks at his siblings and wonders whether they’ve realized that Illumi isn’t there with them. He wonders whether they feel complete, despite his absence.

He turns away from them before he can scratch the glass; somehow, his mother always seems to notice the tiniest details. He walks back to his piano, and thinks: _this is the only place I belong in._

His fingers follow the movement of the note sheet, but when he finally finishes the song, he feels absolutely empty.

 

~***~

 

“Oh, come on, Mike,” Milluki groans. “Just catch the ball.”

He tries again, rolling the ball on the grass. But before it can even reach Mike’s paw, it stops in front of him. The dog stares at it, curious. He begins to touch it with his short fingernails, but then he retrieves his paw and slopes forward, closing his eyes. All the hope on Milluki’s features fade. Frustrated, he grabs the ball and throws it in the opposite direction. Immediately, the dog pounces forward and sticks the ball in between its sharp teeth. But instead of going over to Milluki, the animal proceeds to Killua, who accepts the ball with a smug grin.

Milluki rolls his eyes. “Stupid dog,” he mutters.

Mike growls at him in response.

“Careful, brother,” Killua sings. “He can hear you.”

This is something that he hates about his brother: somehow, Killua always knows how to tangle people in his little finger. His mother is one of them. Whenever Killua needs something, Kikyo Zoldyck will swiftly go to his aid. His father, Silva, isn’t any better. Last month, Killua asked for a new video game console, even though he already had one. His argument was how old it was, and he wanted to play a new game that would require the latest version. Silva bought him what he wanted the next weekend, even though Milluki already booked that day to buy a new computer.

And Illumi . . . Milluki shudders, his whole body tingling at the mere thought. Illumi is the whack of them all. If Killua were to ask his brother to give him his finger, Illumi would do it in a heartbeat. That’s the scariest thing, Milluki guesses, knowing that his brother would hold the sky on his shoulders, even if it were to burn him.

“I don’t even know why you hang out with us when you’re already acting like a dog,” Milluki snaps back.

Killua’s face glowers for a second, and he clenches his fist.

Milluki swallows the fear bubbling in his throat and pretends that he’s as strong as Killua is, even though he’s lying. Despite being older, Milluki has never been in the top of the Zoldyck hierarchy. His parents expect him to do good because it’s expected, not because they’re _expecting_. As long as he can keep the security of the Zoldyck household in tiptop shape, then Milluki is off the hook.

The others, on the other hand, are different.

Before Killua can do anything, Alluka suddenly shrills. _“Killua,”_ she demands. “I want to run around the garden maze!”

Killua’s features soften instantly. “Yes, Alluka,” he says, smiling. “We’ll run around the garden maze.” He turns to Milluki for a brief moment, as if debating whether a punch will take more than a second. But his face changes again as he carries Alluka past the rows of bushes, entering through the golden trellis, separating the lawn and the garden.

Milluki’s shoulders relax when Killua disappears. But somehow, he can’t shake off the feeling that he’s doing something wrong. He glances up at the windows, suddenly alarmed. He sees Illumi watching them silently, his hand pressed against the glass. Illumi is looking at Killua, his eyes pinned at every move. He looks like he’s about to fly off the window and fetch Killua in his arms.

Milluki glances down at the coiled grass, pretending that he hasn’t seen Illumi at all, pretending that his brother’s feelings don’t feel like a prickling thorn at his throat.

 

~***~

 

It will be a lie if he says that he hates Hisoka’s company. But it won’t be the truth if he says that he completely likes it, either. On the other hand, he’s been with Hisoka long enough to overlook the difference.

Chrollo Lucilfer watches Hisoka hop from one person to another, like a bunny that’s unsure what carrot he likes the best – and he simply wants to take a bite of it all. He has Machi strewed against him under his arm, dragging her everywhere. Phinks and Feitan are on the side, taking in a chug of beer. Honestly, they seem the most pissed of all, but amusement is clear on their features. Machi slaps Hisoka lightly on the chest, but the guy doesn’t let go.

Sometimes, Chrollo thinks Hisoka is annoying the crap out of the pink-haired woman just for entertainment. Which is a pretty accurate conclusion, if he does says so himself. Of course, Chrollo knows Hisoka enough understand at least half of what the man is thinking. If anything, he owes this place to Hisoka himself.

Their hangout area is the abandoned car park at the end of the street, where the likelihood of them getting caught is the possibility that the dumpster downtown will actually be cleaned. They’re staying at the second floor, where the area is made of smooth cement. Windows are nonexistent, so if people look closely enough, they will see whatever the gang is hiding. But the place is covered in trees and moss. Branches are splayed over the building, hiding the exterior with their widespread leaves.

Machi is popping Hisoka’s bubblegum when Chrollo decides to have a drink.

“Phinks,” Chrollo calls. “Do you have any more beer?”

Phinks and Feitan look at each other. “I don’t think beer will suit you, boss,” he admits. “I can go steal wine from the Bacchus store, if you want.”

Chrollo shakes his head. “Beer is fine.”

Hesitantly, Phinks hands him over a bottle. Chrollo takes a tiny sip, but the alcohol struggles in his throat, and he buckles over like he’s taken a punch. Phinks rushes to his side, slapping him on the back. Chrollo puts a hand up to stop him. “It’s fine,” he rasps. “It was just a little too much for me.”

Chrollo can’t see the I-told-you-so in Phinks’ faces, and that kind of makes him angry. “Hisoka,” he orders. “Can you grab me a packet of cigarettes from the nearby convenience store?”

Hisoka, who’s been trapping Machi in his embrace, glances up and nods. “Sure,” he says. “Can I take Machi with me?”

“Hell, no!” Machi protests. “Boss, please don’t let him.”

Chrollo looks from one to the other. Hisoka doesn’t seem inclined on letting go. Machi looks like she’s about to beg him, just for the chance of Hisoka going alone. But they’ve made it a rule to always go with your partner whenever they’re about to steal anything, no matter how easy the task may be. He nods at Hisoka, giving him a silent permission.

A crack of a smile fills Hisoka’s mouth. He grabs Chrollo’s beer and takes a slow sip. Chrollo watches the liquid trickle down his chin, sliding its way down the man’s throat. When Hisoka gives back at the beer, Chrollo stares at the small opening, where Hisoka’s lips have kissed.

Everyone can hear the desperation in Machi’s groan as Hisoka pulls her down the stairs. Watching them push the metal gate out of the way, Chrollo takes another tentative sip of his alcohol. This time, the liquid flushes down his throat as easy as a river swift.

“Boss,” Phinks says. “Hisoka could have taken Pakunada, instead.”

Chrollo licks his lips and wonders why he’s agreed, but unlike the others, he knows fully well what he’s hiding.

 

~***~

 

If Hisoka were asked what he likes most about Chrollo, his answer would be: _everything_. Chrollo has been there for nearly half of his life. While Hisoka has been painting ever since he was a kid, Chrollo has been the one to introduce graffiti. Ever since then, he’s been buying spray cans, different colors just for fun. He’s been leaving his marks on walls, abandoned buildings. But for some reason, he can never leave a mark on him.

No matter how hard he tries, the colors Hisoka chooses never works out, like Chrollo is saying that he wants to be a completely blank page, where not even Hisoka’s fingers can stain him.

Now, glancing at the pack of cigarettes stacked near the counter, he swiftly steers Machi into the white paneled aisles. His arm is still wrapped tight around her shoulders, even though she’s already given up on the struggle.

“I can’t believe you brought me here,” Machi grumbles. “What are you, a kid?”

“No, I’m just lonely and desperate.”

Machi rolls her eyes. “Can you just cut the crap and get this over with?”

Hisoka laughs and releases Machi from his grip. The girl shakes her shoulders, as if she’s trying to get rid of his skin. He grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge. “So, did Boss want this? Or was it Phinks?”

“Phinks,” she replies. “Boss wanted a cigarette packet.”

Hisoka can’t even begin to explain why he hates cigarettes. He despises how rancid they feel on the back of his throat; that every time he inhales a little bit of smoke, he feels like he’s about to get lung cancer. Now, just thinking about it pushes a sturdy lump down the tunnel of his throat.

“I’ve never understood how he likes to smoke,” Hisoka admits. “It’s like he has a death wish.”

At that, Machi stares at him hard. “Why don’t you ask yourself that? You know him better than anyone.”

While Machi is telling the truth, Hisoka can’t exactly support that, either. He’s met Chrollo when he was thirteen – naïve and high from freedom, the intoxication so bizarre that he could no longer pluck his feathers out. Chrollo was the one who led him to that idea, to the knowledge that he could have painted a whole building by himself and no one would give a fuck.

She pulls out a can of strawberry fizz from the fridge and glances behind him. When the coast is clear, she flicks the seal open and takes a sip. “Ugh,” she groans. “This tastes like you.”

Hisoka laughs. “You don’t even know what I taste like.” He takes the can from her grip and gulps it down. “Wow, this _does_ taste like me.”

“See? It’s too sweet.”

“Should I be flattered?”

Machi proceeds to the front of the cashier, slipping a cigarette pack into her pocket while the cashier is busy reading a magazine. She looks back at Hisoka and smirks. “I hate strawberries.”

 

~***~

 

At nineteen, Machi knows enough about enjoyment to pretend that she’s feeling it. In sex, the feelings of her partner don’t matter. As long as she’s had her fun, then that’s enough for her. It’s selfish, if she has to be honest about it. But then again, men don’t really care what she’s doing as long as they can release the tension jagged in their bodies. Or their balls. Sex isn’t about feelings, anyway. It’s an exercise. It’s knowing that you will sweat no matter how softly you will do it. It’s the scratching, the biting, the kissing, the bleeding, and of course, the coming.

But while she can pretend enjoyment, she’s still unable to master the opposite, which is why she’s finding it hard to keep a straight face when Hisoka pins her with his arm, as the gang is about to seclude the area.

“Try not to miss me,” he says, and then he lets her go.

Machi doesn’t respond. She’s only met Hisoka a month ago when Chrollo recruited her for the group. She doesn’t know how Boss has found him exactly, but she guesses that he can tell just how much of an enigma Hisoka actually is. When Machi first laid eyes on the pink paint splashed across his hand like a lipstick stain, her first thought was: _Now, this is trouble in its human form._ She didn’t think her thoughts were the truth until Hisoka smirked at her – the curve of his mouth daring, dangerous, the kind of scar you try hard not to get.

“Try not to get killed on the way home,” Machi responds sweetly.

Hisoka chuckles and begins for the gate. Machi watches him go, leaving his presence like a comet, setting everything else on fire so that no one will follow him home. She waits for a few more minutes after he steps out of the gate. She softly hits her feet on the muddy ground, making sure that she doesn’t get burned. As Machi is about to move forward, a voice stops her in her tracks.

“Machi,” Chrollo says, shrugging on his coat. “Are you going home?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “What about you?”

Chrollo’s face is perfectly blank under the loom of the moon, his hair catching its rays like a panel. He leans against the wall and pulls out the cigarette pack she’s bought, as well as a lighter. “Not yet. Keep me company for a while?”

Machi’s chest constricts, as if a fire has burned down her throat. She nods quietly and walks up to him. Their bodies are strained. Her bones are nearly strangled, telling her to get a drip. She can feel the heat emanating off of him like a landslide, catching her weight in the process of falling.

She slides a cigarette stick out of the packet, aware that Chrollo’s eyes are piercing right on her skin. She clicks the lighter open, producing a light flame. Chrollo opens his lips, and Machi sets the cigarette in between his teeth. She holds the lighter to the end of the cigarette as it catches its embers.

Chrollo pulls away, inhaling the nicotine. He gets the cigarette from his mouth and releases a cloud of smoke from his teeth. “Thanks,” he says.

“Sure.”

“I hope Hisoka didn’t bother you too much today,” Chrollo says, nearly apologetic.

Machi smiles. “He’s being annoying as ever. Nothing’s changed.”

“He seems to be interested in you.”

That – Machi is sure of – is a complete lie. Sometimes, when Hisoka isn’t looking at her, Machi catches his eyes diverting to Chrollo, as if the man is a question Hisoka wants to answer. Other times, when Hisoka is drawing in his sketchpad, Machi comes up to him, and he immediately draws the notebook closed. But she can see a glimpse of Chrollo’s shaded face across the paper, sun-kissed and lighted with Hisoka’s affection.

She looks at Chrollo’s face – at the short angle of his nose, the cross tattooed on his forehead, the soft sliver of skin on his neck. And she finds herself drawn, wanting to view Chrollo in a hundred different angles, just to check if each one is different. Is this how Hisoka feels, even after knowing Chrollo all these years?

“He just likes to play around,” Machi says, clearing her throat. She places a hand over her neck, as if to hide the blush growing on her skin. “You know how he is.”

Chrollo looks at her, nodding. “Do you like him?”

Machi laughs. “Liking that guy is just asking for trouble, which I don’t need.”

He takes the cigarette from his lips and pushes the other end in Machi’s direction. “Why don’t you try?”

Machi hesitantly accepts the cigarette. Her heart is pounding, looking at the spot where Chrollo’s lips have touched. She tucks the cigarette in between her teeth. She closes her eyes, taking in a layer of smoke in her lungs. But before she can let the smoke die down, it snags at the corner of her throat, acidic and sweet at the same time. She draws away from the cigarette, coughing.

She clutches at her chest, wondering why, instead of Chrollo, she tastes Hisoka, instead.

 

~***~ 

 

There’s just something about art that Chrollo can never understand. He looks at Van Gogh’s painting, and he sees something different, something so out of bounds that not even the sky can see it burn. And then, he takes a glance at Magritte, and the painting clutches him at his heels, pinning a dagger right on his toes until he’s unable to walk. While he doesn’t know the meaning behind the paintings, he just _feels_ something – that irrevocable emotions that slashes like a knife. However, that’s about the only step he can take towards art.

Because every time he tries to grab Hisoka and pull him back, the man always seems to slip out of his grasp.

“Why am I here again?” Chrollo asks, stepping behind Hisoka as they enter the room.

Hisoka is leading him into an abandoned apartment near the occult bookstore on the street. Judging from the witchcraft going downstairs, Chrollo won’t be surprised if he also manages to find a voodoo doll sitting on the window, or maybe a belladonna just waiting to be plucked for something that isn’t made for poison. The room is dark. The floorboards are cemented and dull. Behind the blocked windows, the light is trying to push through, licking at its edges until it manages to cloud through the crack.

“Because I need someone to keep me from going crazy,” Hisoka answers, kicking a wooden board out of the way.

Chrollo looks around the room, covering his nose when he suddenly smells something rotten. Rats are practically eating away the place, leaving behind its shredded skin and bones. “I’m pretty sure that you’re already far too gone to be saved.”

Hisoka glances back, smiling. “Because I need someone to keep me company.”

Chrollo is about to say that Machi would have been willing, or at least able, but he finds his lips zipped tight when Hisoka settles his bag down the floor. He opens his bag to present paint sprays of different colors. Looking at the smooth texture of the bottle, it’s obvious that it hasn’t been used – yet. Hisoka takes a bottle and looks at the name color. And then, he shakes it rapidly, his knuckles turning white.

Chrollo takes a seat a few steps behind him, curling his legs underneath his weight. He watches Hisoka work. Hisoka’s muscles protrude as they reach the top portion of the wall. Hisoka’s fingers are pressed down the tiny rod. He gently glides the can across the wall, fusing orange hues against the original dull color. They overlap the gray paint, as if the color is spilling its contents into the page like an oil tide.

“I thought you didn’t like graffiti,” Chrollo says. “You said it was too hard.”

“It is,” Hisoka agrees. “Because I’ve never done it before.”

“So, you bought . . .” Chrollo reaches for the bag and pries it open. He grabs a random paint spray and reads the name. “Loving Magenta because . . .?”

Hisoka looks back at him, laughing softly. “Because I would’ve spent the entire evening in the hardware store just to pick a color.”

“Nice to know that you’re so passionate.”

“Oh, but I am, aren’t I?” Hisoka muses, falling back into the wall like glue.

That is something Chrollo has to agree. Hisoka has always been addicted to painting. He doesn’t think there is a day where Hisoka isn’t holding a pencil or a pen. Somehow, his fingernails are always eaten out with paint or coal, as if the art is leaving itself in Hisoka’s grasp, so that the man will never stray away from it. When Chrollo decided to give Hisoka a strawberry scented hand sanitizer, the man ended up keeping the thing for over six months without ever opening it.

Chrollo finds the said hand sanitizer hanging loosely at Hisoka’s zipper, mocking Chrollo with glee.

“Can I check out your sketchbook?”

“Sure. It’s in the bag.”

Chrollo rummages through Hisoka’s things, pushing the paint sprays to the side so that he can tug the sketchbook out. He spreads it open, running his fingers through the pages. Some of the edges are dog-eared, curled slightly like a bow. Chrollo sees a drawing of a girl – probably another random one. But Hisoka’s fingers have given justice to the splotched freckles on her cheeks, the double chin, and the curved spine of her neck.

He flips to another page and looks at the perfect imitation of the trash bin. There are wrinkled and crushed paper balls, as well a rotten banana peel. At the very top, Chrollo can see a lone cigarette bawling its smoke out of the other end. He smiles a little, and then he opens to the next page. He does this until he sees something unusual, not in the sketch, but in the way Hisoka has drawn it.

The paper is smothered with erasures, taking away the art that Hisoka has tasted on his lips. Chrollo fingers the drawing of a sunflower, but the petals are wreathing away from the light. Its stem is cracked, showing off a glum grin near the dying leaf. “What’s this?” Chrollo asks, curious.

Hisoka looks behind him and stares at the drawing. He brings his hand down to his side before he turns away again. “It’s a sunflower.”

“I know. But you tried drawing something else.” Chrollo rubs at the swollen portion of the page. “Is it your face?”

“No.” Hisoka scowls. “I tried drawing the sun. But it didn’t work out.”

At that, Chrollo cracks a smile. He hides his lips behind his hand, trying not to laugh. “You can’t draw the sun.”

“That’s why I said it didn’t work out.” Hisoka glances at Chrollo again, and his scowl deepens. He bends over the man, stealing his sketchbook away from his hands. “But I can paint it.”

Chrollo rests his hands behind him, the rim of his palm supporting his weight as he leans back. “The painting will never be as beautiful.”

Hisoka grips the sketchbook tightly, pursing his lips. Chrollo knows that look – that obvious defiance, the kind of gaze Hisoka pins on his features when he finds a challenge. “And why not?”

Chrollo reaches over to pat Hisoka’s cheek, where it’s being kissed by light. “Because,” he says, “it’s not you.”

 

~***~

 

The dining table is always quiet, that’s what Illumi has observed. But there’s always this heavy silence that begs to be heard. He can hear the quiet hum of his mother’s throat when she gulps down her champagne. The clatter of utensils roar around the dining area like a tide, washing over its remains on a beach. Illumi lets the maids place his plate on the table. He doesn’t bother to look up from the flicker of the candle in front of him. Beside him, Kalluto is playing with the bottom hem of her blouse. Silva is waiting for the food to arrive as Kikyo takes in another sip of her wine. Milluki is already grabbing his fork, his puffy cheeks blowing even larger when he spots the mashed potatoes being delivered to the center of the table.

But beneath all this noise, Illumi’s attention is driven to Killua, who’s glaring at the fork like it’s about to lunge forward and stab him. Illumi fiddles with his own, wondering what will happen if Killua stares at his hand, instead.

Once the food is perfectly set on the table, Kikyo gestures to the banquet, allowing the others to take whatever they want. Milluki digs in first. He gobbles over the chicken, slicing three pieces unto his plate until his platter is practically filled. Illumi gently pours a little bit of soup into his bowl, drawing away when he feels Killua’s eyes piercing his neck like a needle. For a moment, he thinks, _don’t look at me_. And then, his mind trembles, and he corrects himself, _don’t stop._

“Illumi,” Kikyo calls. “Did you fill in the application for the University of Law?”

“Not yet, mother,” Illumi answers, ducking his head before he can see the obvious spite of his mother’s face, written across her expression like a washboard.

The University of Law is where his parents studied to become the lawyers they are now. It’s an Ivy League school in the north, where the people there are rich and successful. The amount of work Illumi has taken into himself has doubled, just for the chance to pass. Kikyo has already taught him the basics of law a year ago; now, his father is the one taking over, making him visit courtrooms and check out unusual cases to get a feel of what he’s about to.

He remembers his father’s blank face as he takes the stage of the courtroom, hitting witness after witness with words, until he’s gotten the answer for the jury and the judge to hear. There are times when he looks at his father, and he sees beyond that huge mop of silver hair. Behind that sullen mouth is a tongue made of vipers, ready to strike its opponents like a dagger. He’s seen defendants cower under his father’s control. And he wonders whether Silva Zoldyck knows the outcome of the case, or if he simply alters his fate.

Suddenly, the silence is shattered by Killua’s voice, smooth and cold as steel. “Illumi’s seventeen,” he states. “Why does he have to fill out college applications?”

Illumi looks at him, stunned. The table grows quiet, as the question looms over them, brewing up a storm on Kikyo’s head. Her eyebrows are lifted, her mouth set in a thin line. She opens her mouth, almost to lash out the sentence stuck in her throat, but then she stops herself and gives Killua a faint smile.

“Because,” Kikyo says, “this is Illumi’s responsibility.”

“For himself?” Killua asks. “Or as your son?”

Illumi can feel the tension heightening as another second passes. It dwells on his spine, the way a line is made against a book bind, ridged and stroked with uneasiness. Illumi straightens his back to get rid of it, but he only ends up getting another word lodged in his throat. Milluki looks over at him, and then he turns back to the silent war between Killua and their mother.

Finally, Illumi speaks. “It’s okay, Killua.” He faces his mother. “I shall attend to the application later tonight. I’ll give the folder to you in the morning.”

Kikyo strains a smile, but her face is blanched. Her lips are thinned together like a tightrope. “See, Killua?” Her voice is pitched high. “Illumi wants to do this. You should support your brother.” She looks at Milluki, the smile gone from her features. Illumi can see the familiar scowl on her face. “Milluki, pass me the salt.”

Milluki hurries to get the salt from the middle, but his big belly slides over the table, causing his wine glass to stumble over. “Oh . . .”

Illumi watches the wine drip over to his side of the table, licking his pants. “It’s okay. I’ll go get the towel.”

As he lifts himself off the chair, he can see Killua’s eyes rapping at his cheek. There are dark circles under the weight of Killua’s eyes, and it smothers his pupils like a storm. The exchange settles a lightning brand on his forehead, making him take a step back. Just as he turns away to get a towel, Killua leaps to his feet, forcing the chair to topple behind him. He stares at Illumi for a brief moment, looking betrayed, before he turns on his heel and leaves.

Kikyo begins to walk after him. “Killua – ”

“Leave him be.”

Their eyes snap to Silva Zoldyck, who’s smoothly running his sharpened knife across the steak. He takes a casual bite of his food and swallows. He looks at Illumi. “Would you like to go after your brother?”

Illumi doesn’t answer, but the sentence is already curled on his tongue like an egg. He follows Killua out of the room, his heart pounding like a wasp nest. He can still feel Killua's gaze on his own cheek, as if he’s never left.

 

~***~

 

Killua has this habit of walking into the courtyard when the night is flying over the mansion. Illumi notices the clouds parting, revealing the moon’s ghastly form. The cobblestones are fresh and cold under his feet. He wiggles his toes, and he can feel his skin shiver under the frigid bearings of the ground. He walks beyond the rose trellis, watching the vines coil around the metal gates, like they’re snapping their teeth against the wires. Its shape is wreathing, trying to kiss the sliver of Illumi’s skin. His arm grazes against a thorn, and he pulls his hand away to find it bleeding.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Killua says behind him.

“Neither should you.”

Killua growls. “I don’t want to go back to that fucking train wreck of a family!”

Illumi visibly flinches, holding his arm away from the cramped path. “Mother is only doing what’s best for you. For us.”

“So?” Killua scowls. “Forcing you to take law isn’t going to make this family any better.”

“Fighting off her demands won’t make a difference, either,” Illumi points out. He lets go of his arm, letting it brush against the hissing leaves. He can feel the blood seeping down his skin, walking past the spaces in between his fingers. But looking at Killua have the same rekindled suffering hurts a lot more than the thorn.

Killua looks away. “Why are you not pushing her away?” he asks softly. “Why are you letting her control you?” He glances up, raising his chin to face Illumi again. His lips are trembling, but his eyes are steady. “Are you not angry for what she’s doing to you?”

“No,” Illumi answers.

“Why not?” Killua demands. “ _I’m_ angry! _You_ should be angry.”

Illumi closes his eyes. His chest feels like a thousand pounds, as if the weight of the world Atlas has been holding is now transferred to his body, tucked in between the carcasses of his bones. He can feel the fire eating the rest of him, snapping its teeth at his gums until he has nothing left to swallow.

He remembers the first time Killua has disobeyed their mother’s orders. Kikyo Zoldyck told him not to visit the festival happening in the south part of the city. But they could hear the fireworks peeking over the tint of their windows. Killua had been so desperate that he’d snuck out of the mansion and returned successfully with a pack of cotton candy for Milluki, and candies for the rest of the siblings. Illumi received something different back then – it was a caramel apple, glistened with the heat of Killua’s skin.

“I’m not angry,” Illumi says.

“So, you’re just going to let her do whatever she wants with you?” Killua asks, gritting his teeth. “You’re just going to stand there and act like you don’t give a fuck?”

“Yes.”

Killua swallows. “Why?”

Illumi watches the moon sleigh over Killua’s features like glass, his eyes crystalized and scorned with disbelief. He can almost taste Killua’s bitterness like smoke on his tongue. He gives his brother a weak smile, his lips stretching out like rubber, until it finally snaps back. He cups Killua’s cheek, where it’s being adorned by an early winter moon.

“Because,” he says, “it’s not you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like the new chapter. Leave a comment if you have anything to say about it. ~


	17. Ashes and Wine

Chapter Seventeen

 

November 2013

 

 

One portion of the room is coated with lavender, overlapping the original grey complexion of the wall. Even the edges are painted to perfection. Smacked in the middle of it are black trees, layered by twilight and murk. Their shadows are lingering like foxes, tottering around the makeshift forest. The trees are coiled unnaturally. It’s as if they were being possessed. Their branches are wreathing, trying to meet each other’s tips like a fault line, but even their fingers can’t bite the other off. The lines are crooked and dissolved. The edges of the roots are tinted with mud, winking under the soil like the eyes of wolves. At the middle is a rooted path, overshadowed by branches and leaves.

Hisoka is already working on the blood, using his fingers to pale out the lavender with a maroon color. His thumb is brushed lightly against the wall. The lines of his fingers are papered, leading up to the dark violet gleam at the end of the narrow path. Once the road is veneered by blood, Hisoka takes a step back and admires his work.

His idea of the painting is very simple, nothing like the project he’s been working on for months. This is much easier, because this doesn’t involve emotion – just the general feeling of being haunted, controlled by the armor of night and its lack of glow, which signifies the absence of the moon. The roots are planted on the trees like canes, hooked tightly into a metal binder. The trees are almost like people, stretching their bodies like willows. The path, despite its narrow form, is separating them so much that they can’t even sustain the need to touch each other freely.

He’s always thought that Halloween is a fascinating occasion. But mostly, it’s because he’s allowed to paint the walls. And when he’s given permission to do something he usually can’t, he tends to fall back, letting his bones control the wires of his system until he’s gotten out all the things he has to purge from his body. Now that he’s let loose of his inkling to paint, he glances back at the door, and Machi coincidentally enters the room. He watches her walk over to him before he sits back on his stool. He dabs his fingers against the wall again, trying to darken the color with his thumb. It isn’t long before he feels her presence behind him, a looming stone over his shoulder.

 “Nice forest,” Machi comments. She looks closer, spotting the blood marking its way down the path. “If you were a murderer,” she muses, “I think you’d stop painting.”

“Oh, I’ll still be an artist,” Hisoka corrects. “I’ll just use their blood to paint the walls.”

Machi smiles drily. “That’s very creative of you.”

Hisoka grins. “Always.” He can almost feel Machi rolling her eyes. “So, what are you doing here, anyway? Last time I checked, I didn’t welcome you into my humble abode.”

“No, you didn’t,” Machi agrees. “But you have the Halloween decorations in the storage room.” She gestures to the painting. “I’m sure you won’t need it, considering that you have everything on your fingers.”

Hisoka smiles, looking at his fingers like they’re latches, trying to grab on to someone else. “Sure. They’re at the back. Don’t trip over my paintings.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to ruin your work of art.” Machi heads over to the storage room, switching the doorknob. But when she pushes the door, it won’t budge. She tries again, and she nearly stumbles over, her foot sliding on the floor.

“It’s not locked,” Hisoka calls out, fully turning around.

Machi peeks inside the narrow gap and scowls. “Your paintings fell over.”

“What?” Hisoka groans under his breath. He crosses the room and flattens his palm over the door, trying to push it open. He sighs and presses his shoulder against it, forcing his weight unto the door until it finally breaks open. He finds his paintings gathered at the entrance, layered in cloths and dust like it’s been buried when he wasn’t around. He tucks them back on the side, so that Machi can pass through.

When he’s finished, Machi steps inside, holding her breath. “I forgot how talented you are for a second.”

“Hmm. The forest wasn’t enough proof?”

“Vandalizing isn’t as good as what you put on a canvas,” Machi says. She strides over to a loose painting on a wall, unhooking it from its curled peg. It’s a dull picture of the sunset, blinking over the contours of sharp buildings. It’s the color of gold and violet, mingling together like sheets until they’re layered unto a mattress. Clouds are fluffed over the buildings, gathered together in mist. The buildings are triangular, its tips pointing directly at the sky like a pencil. Hisoka painted it a light crystal, reflecting the sky’s gaze on its blue jets. “You were seventeen here.”

Hisoka shrugs. “He was obsessed with the sun. So, I painted it for him.”

Machi puts it back on the holder. “You painted everything for him.”

Hisoka looks at Machi, his face perfectly blank, his eyes gleaming with the truth. But inside, his chest is heaving, crumbling under the weight like a sky has fallen on top of his bones. He gnaws on it with his teeth, chewing its remains until he can finally swallow. “Not everything,” he murmurs. He heads over to the backside of the room, trying to find the box labeled with decorations.

He pulls a piece of cloth and tosses it behind him. He lifts a box and walks back to Machi with a grin, the tension erased from the air. “Pretty sure I can find skeletons in your closet.”

Machi smirks and accepts the box from his grasp. “We’re going to have a party later. With the troupe.”

“Ah, am I invited?”

“Only if you bring beer.” Machi turns to the exit. “You can have Illumi over, too.”

As Machi leaves the room, Hisoka stays grounded on the floor, making no move to follow her. He can feel the stares of the paintings at his skin, biting his muscles like a shark until they leave their teeth. Hisoka buries his hands in his pockets and looks at the ceiling. “Well,” he says softly, “wouldn’t that be fun?”

 

~***~

 

It doesn’t come as a surprise when Illumi suddenly asks to borrow his laptop. But he still finds himself stunned at the possibility that his brother will actually use technology. Well, something that isn’t a phone. Milluki isn’t sure what his brother is trying to find, or why Illumi will ask to borrow his laptop in the first place. His brother isn’t exactly the first person he’ll go to when the topic is about technology, or anything that doesn’t involve law. But his biggest dilemma is this: What does Illumi need to find that Milluki can’t find for him?

Illumi is curled on the farthest side of Milluki’s bed, the laptop tucked on his lap. His face is illuminated by the static screen. One minute, he’s typing vigorously, and then the next his eyes are glazing over the screen like he’s in a reading race. Milluki doubts Illumi is playing any game, whether that may be about words or something else.

Milluki glances at him one more time before he concentrates on the show in front of him. Despite his attentiveness of the episode, he can’t seem to get Illumi out of his head. What does his brother need? Why is he using a _laptop_ for it?

When Milluki looks back again, he blinks in surprise. Illumi is no longer there, but the door to his room is open, so he guesses that his brother has snuck out for a little while. He peers over the door to check whether Illumi is in the premises. When he’s sure that he won’t get caught, he quietly makes his way to the bed, holding the laptop open. He searches for the browser, and he finds himself looking at the bookmarks page.

To his surprise, his usual flood of hentai videos and pictures are adorned instead by Halloween treats – such as Crisp Candy, Bloody Floats, Slimy Bog Balls, “I Scream” Graveyard Pie, and the like. Looking at the pictures of food, his stomach starts to grumble. But then, he suddenly sees something he never thought he’d even _imagine_. At the very top portion of the page, the Google search, _perfect Halloween date_ , is embarked. Milluki shouldn’t be surprised, but he _is_.

He knows that his brother’s relationship with Hisoka isn’t what he’d consider friendship, but to think that Illumi, who has never even gone out on a date, would take this seriously – well, the thought is promising, but also just as dangerous. Illumi knows that his freedom is still locked in a cage, a trap that keeps him surmounted until his own claws finally break free. But what will happen when their mother finds out?

“Oh, brother,” he says softly.

Just then, the door flies open. Illumi enters the room and immediately freezes, his large eyes nearing the edge of panic. Milluki can see the tension stuck in the path of his throat. Milluki places the laptop back on the bed and slowly gets up. “Strawberry Ghosts,” he announces. “I think he’ll like that.” He grabs his 3DS on the bed stand and exits the room, giving Illumi the privacy he deserves.

 

~***~

 

“Should I even be questioning why I’m doing this with you?”

Hisoka and Machi are in her apartment, decorating the living room and the kitchen for the party that night. While the decorations are pretty much crappy and useless, it’s better than having nothing at all. Hisoka is blowing air into the balloon, his chest heaving every time he inserts more of his damn oxygen into the plastic. When the balloon is at the appropriate size, he ties the knot and lets it pump down the floor.

“Because,” Machi says, “you’re invited, so you have to make some contributions.”

“And what are the others going to do? Drink beer and piss on the couch?”

It’s no secret that Hisoka doesn’t like the troupe, not after they kicked him out like last year’s fashion trend. But at the same time, it was also his choice to leave. Hisoka didn’t like being in a place where he didn’t belong. However, Machi has insisted that Hisoka will come over, just because he’s helping her decorate her living room into some dick terrain. In other words, it’s just absolute shit.

“Well, they’re _bringing_ beer.” Machi takes one look at him and sighs. “Just cheer up, would you? It’s Halloween. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Good thing I don’t have any.”

“Why?” Machi asks, her voice calm. “Your dick can fit in there.”

Hisoka glares at her before he stands up from his chair. He walks over to the box and lifts a skeleton, his face brightening with enthusiasm. He hangs the skeleton over the holder of the door to Machi’s room. Machi is too busy with the bowls of candies to notice that he’s already stepped inside. He struts over to her drawer, pulling out a pair of thongs.

“My, my, Machi,” he whispers. “How very sexy of you.”

He walks out of the room and clears his throat, catching Machi’s attention. He’s holding up the panty in his fingers, swinging it back and forth like a taunt. Machi’s eyes go wide with disbelief, her face coloring into a bright shade of red.

“Where did you get that?” Machi says, her voice pitched high. She tries to grab the thong away from him, but Hisoka holds it out of her grasp. “Give it back!”

“No way.” Hisoka laughs. “We have to dress up our friend over there.” He points to the naked skeleton, grinning at Machi, its hinges flying open. As Machi steps back, looking defeated, Hisoka bends under the skeleton. He inserts its legs under each hole and tugs it up to his thighs. He ties the free space at the sides, so that it’s a perfect fit. He lightly slaps his hand over the skeleton’s thong.

“See?” Hisoka grins. “It fits.”

“You,” Machi says, laughing, “are ridiculous.”

 

~***~

 

This is the first time he’s seen Hisoka with them since two years ago. It’s not exactly the kind of Halloween party Phinks has in mind, but there’s nothing he can do about it without picking up a fight. The others are just as surprised when they enter Machi’s apartment and see Hisoka sprawled on the couch. Phinks should have known better; they should have placed the occasion elsewhere. Preferable a place where Phinks won’t have to resist the urge to spit right on Hisoka’s face.

Machi is giving out the beer, telling Hisoka to give the others some space to sit. Hisoka laughs at her, but he straightens himself up, accepting her offer of alcohol. Phinks stays at the small kitchen, taking a sip of his beer as he watches the scene take place. It seems like he isn’t even a part of it, just a spectator over some horrible nightmare where Hisoka is involved.

Feitan is suddenly beside him, smirking. “You look like you’re about to throw him out of the window.”

“I would,” Phinks says, “but Machi is protecting him like a mother hawk.”

“Too bad her feelings for him are far from maternal.”

At that, Phinks scowls. He doesn’t know what Machi sees in him, despite the fact that Hisoka is good looking. Other than that, Hisoka can never make a person happy. He’s got too much shit on his shoulders. Machi will only take his burdens and gobble it all up, so that Hisoka won’t be alone when he finally falls.

Feitan elbows him in the ribs. “I heard Hisoka’s inviting his boyfriend over.”

“Boyfriend?” Phinks shoots him a confused look. “You mean, he’s really dating that guy? I thought it was just a joke.”

“Apparently not, since Hisoka’s taking this seriously.” Feitan tips his head back to drink more beer. He looks at Phinks, his expression stoic. “Now, just imagine what Machi has to say to that.”

Phinks glowers. The atmosphere suddenly changes, turning rancid as he puts his beer on the counter. “Machi,” he calls. “Can we talk for a second?”

Machi is seated on the armrest of the couch, laughing with Hisoka as his finger pokes her on the side. She turns to Phinks, bearing the expression she has whenever Hisoka is beside her, gone and fluttered like a wing. But she realizes whom she’s talking to and erases it from her face. “Yeah,” she says, hopping to her feet. “Sure.”

They go to the balcony, or what can be considered a balcony. Phinks leans against the railings, with Machi right beside him. If the situation were different, Phinks would have leaned in and kissed her, but Machi has a wall around her Phinks can’t break. Whenever he tries to push his fingers through the crack, he ends up getting bitten. And yet, he sees Hisoka successfully enter his entire body in her boundaries every damn day.

“Hisoka’s boyfriend,” Phinks begins. “He’s coming over, huh?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

Phinks shrugs. “I don’t know. Just curious.” He looks at her, but she’s staring blankly at the building in front of her. _Look at me_ , he thinks, _and forget him._ But even he knows how impossible that is. “You can tell him not to make his boyfriend come, you know.”

“How can I,” she says, “when I was the one who suggested it?”

“What?” Phinks splutters, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Why?”

“Because I know he’d want to?” Machi says. “Because I know that he’d get lonely and he needs someone to help him gain ground? I don’t know, Phinks. Does it really matter to you?” She finally looks at him, her eyes gleaming. And even Phinks can see the vibrancy of her pain. “Maybe I’m just trying to make his life a little easier for once.”

Phinks stares at her hard. “Why? He doesn’t.”

Machi returns his gaze with equal ferocity. “Oh? And you do?”

 

~***~

 

Machi knew from the start that having Hisoka over would involve some problems, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to push it away. Everyone is already gathered at the center, forming a circle. Hisoka is sitting in the middle of Pakunada and Franklin, because they’re one of the only ones who can even tolerate his presence. He hasn’t spoken to anyone besides her, which makes her wonder whether she’s done the right thing.

When the door is knocked, Machi can see the obvious flash of relief on Hisoka’s face, lighting up the contours of his features. “I’ll get it,” Hisoka says, lifting his body from the ground. He opens the door, and greets Illumi on the other side. The others try to ignore the silence by talking, but Machi is quiet, straining to hear their conversation. She closes her eyes as they step inside the room.

Machi realizes that this is the first time he’s seen Hisoka and Illumi together. And she notices that they’re almost the same height, so Hisoka can never tuck his chin on the oval of Illumi’s head. She wonders whether Illumi can hear the hummingbird caress of Hisoka’s heartbeat, soft and tidal in the shell of his ears. She wonders whether Illumi can feel Hisoka’s heart in the middle of his palms, pulsing on the crooked wires of his skin. But Illumi isn’t even looking at him. Instead, he’s staring at the splintered drifts of sun against the windows, like he can’t believe something can be that beautiful. Instinctively, Machi’s eyes move to Hisoka’s face.

“This is Illumi,” Hisoka says. “Illumi, these are . . .”

Machi stretches herself to hold out her hand. “I’m Machi,” she says. “These are my friends. Thanks for coming over.”

Illumi hesitantly accepts her hand. “I’m Illumi. Thank you for inviting me.” He turns to face the others and bows in greeting. He takes a seat next to Hisoka as the others scoot over to give them space.

Machi can sense the tension getting thicker, suffocating the rest of them until their bodies are covered in fog. They don’t know what to do next, and Machi is trying to find the words to make it more comfortable. But before she can open her mouth, Phinks is already putting the bottle at the middle of the floor.

“Spin the bottle,” he says. “Seven Minutes of Heaven. Let’s pretend that we’re actually attracted to each other.”

The others laugh and nod in agreement. Over the noise, Machi can hear Hisoka, his voice loud and clear in the tunnel of her ears.

“Is beer okay? I put some Coke in it, so that it won’t be as bitter.”

“Thank you,” Illumi says, accepting the beer. But he places it in front of him, looking into the hole. Machi can see Hisoka’s eyes soften immensely as he glances over at Illumi, the golden hue of his pupils dilating like a ring.

Finally, Machi straightens her back and flashes them a smile so fake, it’s about to snap back in the middle. “Okay. Who’s first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like this chapter. Tell me what you think! ~ :)


	18. Leave Your Lover

Chapter Eighteen

 

November 2013

 

 

Illumi’s never been in this kind of gathering before. Usually, when his mother tells him that he’s going to a party, she will dress him up in the most expensive tux. His shoulders will be stiff. His chest will be contorted into a flat board, unable and ceasing to breathe. His hair will be tied into a perfectly neat ponytail. Kikyo Zoldyck has always been one for appearances, so if her own son can’t gather up his wits to dress suitably, then she will absolutely combust into anger.

But this kind of party is different. Everyone around him is dressed in casual clothes, nothing like the suit and tie brazened with their status like a blinking sign. One man is wearing trousers. Most of them have piercings attached to the holes of their ears and noses. When he blinks, he can see a piercing holed up in one person’s tongue. The other has hair of paged silver, draped loosely across the sides of her face like a curtain. Her eyes are peeking out from the corners, staring right at him. Illumi stares back before he drops his eyes down the open bottle of beer.

He’s never tasted this drink before, either. His tongue has gotten used to wine, champagne, and cocktails from different countries. His mother has told him that sometimes, they will travel to various places, so their taste in food will be slightly altered from the ones he’s used to. But he’s sure that beer is local; too local. He cradles it carefully in his hand and throws his head back to take a sip. The stench coming from the hole bursts through the opening and flies up his nostrils. He closes his eyes as the liquid trickles down his throat, burning up the ladder of his neck until it practically leaves a mark.

He brings it back down to the floor. His face feels hot. His cheeks are flaming, rising two red flags the color of crimson. The liquid coils around his neck like a lump, only it pins down the shape of his throat. It spindles down his bones and chest. “W-What . . .” Illumi scrunches his eyebrows, staring down at the gaping hole. It almost feels like a joke. “This tastes really . . .”

“Awful?” Hisoka offers, bringing down his bottle.

Illumi notices how calm Hisoka is. His eyes are the same golden hue, and his lips are pink. The alcohol doesn’t seem to have an effect. He guesses that Hisoka’s system is already used to this kind of drink. But Illumi isn’t. “Do you like it?” Illumi asks, fingering his own bottle.

Hisoka takes another gulp, sinking his cheekbones together as he swallows. He glances at the bottle and shrugs. “I guess. I’m used to it. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to. I can bring you a glass of water?”

“Yes, thank you,” Illumi say, almost choking.  

As soon as the words leave his lips, he regrets it. Hisoka leaps to his feet and steps toward Machi, tapping her on the shoulder. Machi glances back, her eyes confused yet alert. When Hisoka opens his mouth, Illumi memorizes the shape of it, wondering if the words sound any different when he’s talking to someone else. He feels his heart snap like a twig once they leave the living room and enter the kitchen. Surrounded by the commotion, Illumi wriggles in his seat, wilting like a willow until he’s rooted to the carpet. He wonders whether Hisoka feels anything when he’s with Machi, when he can feel the warmth of her back against his palm. Does his heartbeat quicken when he absorbs the heat of her? Does the memory burn the back of his eyelids?

When Hisoka returns with a drink of water, Illumi ignores it. And he questions why he can no longer feel Hisoka’s hand on his skin, like he’s completely disappeared, as if he’s left a part of him with her.

 

~***~

 

There is always something fun about Seven Minutes of Heaven, Hisoka thinks, as the bottle spins against the carpet like a wind turbine. Everyone is grounded on the floor, their spines tickled as they sit up straight. There is always the anticipation hanging in the air like a bud, slowly growing as the bottle continues to go around, trying to fish out its next victim. This time, the spinner is Phinks, who’s trying very hard not to look at Machi, the visible hope in his eyes glinting like lightning.

Hisoka knows the lump in his chest, how he so badly wants the bottle to point at Machi. And he can’t help but feel sorry for his desperation. It’s a no brainer that Machi doesn’t harbor the same feelings for Phinks, but that’s the funny thing. No matter how much she tries to set him straight, he still ends up being crooked. Hisoka watches the light die out of his eyes when the bottle starts to slow down. It’s obvious that it will land on his side of the circle.

His eyes widen when the bottle quivers toward his direction. Even Phinks has the same blatant fear. Hisoka quickly reaches for the bottle and tips it sideward, accidentally making it divert its top toward Machi’s body. Machi stares at the bottle for a moment before glaring at Hisoka, her eyes narrowed in accusation.

“That’s cheating,” Machi points out.

Hisoka shrugs. “Rules are rules, right?” He grins, and then he uses a hand to mockingly wave them away. “Now, go make out with the bastard in the closet.”

Machi’s eyes only gleam with betrayal as she purses her lips. Hisoka returns her hard stare before he finally looks away, focusing instead to focus on Phinks. The man is trying to hide his smile beneath his mouth, but it’s already starting to crack in the pavement of his lips. As Phinks stands up and brushes his jeans off, Hisoka speaks. “Better thank me for that one, Phinks. You could have gotten me.”

Phinks scoffs. “Like I’m actually going to kiss your balls.”

“Well, Machi definitely isn’t.”

The others laugh when Phinks turns bright red with anger. Machi follows him into the closet, but just before she closes the door, Hisoka can feel her spat at him, the words clear and toxic in the pit of his throat. Hisoka only smiles, but his chest is strumming like electric guitar chords, screaming its ballad into the front row of his teeth until they’re vibrating. He uses his tongue to lick it away.

He leans against Illumi’s shoulder as the troupe gathers at the door to try to make out their voices. He tucks his head in the curve of Illumi’s neck. “Sorry for dragging you here.”

Hisoka can feel him shrug. “It doesn’t matter,” Illumi answers. “I’m already here.”

“You’re not having fun.”

“I’m not,” Illumi agrees. “But neither are you.” He lifts his shoulder a little to get Hisoka off. Illumi looks at him with his black eyes popped open like a can. “Are you sure that you’re okay?”

Hisoka nods. “I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Illumi shrugs. “You’re not talking as much.”

“Maybe it’s because I want to kiss you.” Hisoka grins, his teeth flashing against Illumi’s face like a reflection. He leans in closer while the others are distracted, and Illumi meets him halfway, a man standing in front of a train track, just waiting for the wreckage to enter his chest. Their lips connect together in a frenzy. Hisoka’s bones nearly jolt away, coiling away from each other’s end shots like an unraveling string. Illumi’s lips are soft and cold. Hisoka can feel his chill gargle its way through his teeth until his throat is freezing. He’s never felt anything as disintegrating.

When Hisoka pulls away with a flick, he looks over Illumi’s shoulder, and he tries to hide the shock when he sees Machi staring at them. Her face is as blank as an untouched page, and Hisoka wonders what kind of words she’s been keeping to herself to keep from spoiling. They return to their respective seats as Hisoka straightens himself up. He looks at Illumi and finds him just as flustered.

Machi reaches over to spin the bottle again. Phinks’ cheeks are crimson. The red is creeping down to his neck. Hisoka concentrates on the bottle, as if he’s willing the tip to point at him. When the bottle finally starts to slow down, it lands in Hisoka’s direction. Their eyes snap together like rubber. Hisoka’s chest tightens up at the connection, like there’s a wedge of truth clenched in between his ribs. He softly grazes Illumi’s arm in apology, but his eyes are staring right at Machi. He feels the clod rise up to his throat in greeting.

“Hisoka has a boyfriend,” Phinks calls, his cheeks flaming. “He’s not allowed.”

 _Then, what’s the point of me joining the game?_ Hisoka thinks before he can stop himself.

“Rules are rules,” Machi says. She looks at Hisoka, the hope in her voice as obvious as pain. “Right?”

As Hisoka lifts himself to his feet, Illumi tugs him by the sleeve. “Hisoka?” he says. Just his name, but the lump in Hisoka’s throat transfers over like a disease. Hisoka stares at him, but even when their eyes are connected, it feels like Hisoka isn’t even looking at all. Finally, Illumi lets go, immediately folding his hand into a fist on his lap.

They walk towards the closet. Their bodies are a meter apart. But when the door closes behind him, he can feel the inches between them narrow like a scar.

 

~***~

 

Even on a Friday night, Milluki can pretend that he also has a life outside the Zoldyck mansion. His friends had invited him over for a video game session. The game, Far Cry, has gotten their attention. Milluki has a copy over at his house, and they’d been playing it for the whole night. He’s told his mother that he’ll be arriving late, probably after dinner. And Kikyo Zoldyck, frankly, doesn’t care whether her child will go home later than the assessed time. Milluki is important to the Zoldyck family, but nothing like the ranking Illumi has to their parents. While Milluki has the throne to the control room and the security area, Illumi has the crown to everything else. But unlike Illumi, Milluki can actually let the shackles off his ankles go. Whereas, Illumi can never detach himself from his seat, not even if their father will allow him.

Milluki enters the mansion and immediately knows that something is wrong. Unlike the familiar humid air of the house, the same lousy atmosphere that sets the people on fire, this has a stale and bitter scent. Milluki steps into the hallway, as the scent grows stronger. The house doesn’t seem quiet. There’s like a bustle of energy coming from everywhere around him. He narrows his eyes when he reaches his room, turning the knob over.

He is painfully surprised when he finds his bedroom occupied by men in clad suits. He hasn’t seen any since two years ago, and he can’t believe he’s seen them again. These people aren’t their butlers. They’re wearing dark shades. They have tiny microphones attached to the pocket of their suits. Milluki can tell the design just by looking. One of them looks at him and steps away. Milluki blinks as he pushes himself into the crowded room.

What are these men doing in here? Does his father know? Does his _mother_ know? Suddenly, his body awakens, alert. He rushes to his computer, where he finds Kikyo Zoldyck standing behind a man hacking his system. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead, slick and heavy on his heated skin. He watches the man type the coding to ruin his security mainframe, connect the cords into the docks, so that their hacker will take over the ports of his control.

“Mother,” Milluki says in disbelief, “what are you doing?”

His mother swerves around, her arms crossed. Her eyes are tight, and her lips are drawn together into a thin line. The wrinkles on her face are sewed together. Milluki almost flinches. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me, aren’t you, Milluki?”

Milluki tries to find the point in lying, but it will only make matters worse. “I-I guess so.”

Her eyes soften a little. “Were you trying to hide your brother, my dear Milluki?”

This time, Milluki winces. “Yes, mother.”

“You know better than to cover for your brother, Milluki. Especially when Illumi is hiding secrets he doesn’t want us to know.” Her voice pitches in the curve of his ears. “Do you remember last time?”

He does. Sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night, watching his brother go through the same thing, while his family stands in the background. Sometimes, cold sweat trembles against his skin like he’s grown an earthquake. Sometimes, he looks at Illumi, and he can no longer remember who he used to be. “Yes, mother.”

“Good,” she answers softly. “That’s good. Now, Milluki, will you tell me who this Hisoka is, or will we have to take your computers away for it?”

Milluki shuts his eyes as he can feel every eye in the room drift toward him. He doesn’t need to tell her his answer. It’s already obvious in the crook of his throat.

 

~***~

 

The first thing he notices in the closet is the cluster of boxes. In the dark, he can’t make out any of them. But Machi is already stealing his attention. They stay a meter apart from each other, unable or maybe unwilling to move in. Seven minutes. How much more do they have to suffer before the other collapses? How much more can his chest take when Machi is already steeling herself in front of him? Hisoka glances at the plump pink of Machi’s lips before diverting his face again.

“Did you really kiss Phinks?” Hisoka asks, genuinely curious.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Hisoka repeats. “He looks so fucking happy that it’s like you two hooked up.”

Machi laughs, but it catches in her throat. “Seven minutes? That’s too short.”

Hisoka smiles. “For him, it would be the best.”

“Do you really want to talk about Phinks?” Machi asks. “Or do you want to get this over with?”

Hisoka counts off the seconds in his mind. He thinks of Illumi, who has willowed himself into a root when Hisoka made it obvious that he was willing. He thinks of Phinks, who will absolutely pummel the shit out of him when they go back outside. And he thinks of Machi, who’s looking at him like she wants to curl their bodies together in a bundle, where neither Illumi nor Phinks can get in between them. And he thinks of himself, wondering why the anchor in his chest has drifted off the moment Machi is within proximity.

And he gives himself the answer he’s never wanted to know.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” Hisoka says honestly. “I don’t know how.”

Machi snorts. “Now, that’s a joke. I don’t want to kiss you, either. I don’t want to do anything with you.”

Hisoka leans his head back against the door and smiles. “And why’s that?”

“Because,” Machi says quietly, “I don’t want to taste him on your lips, or any other part of you he’s taken away from me.”

Hisoka doesn’t say anything for a moment. But the smile grows on his lips as he closes his eyes. “And what,” he whispers, “makes you think that you will?”

 

~***~

 

He can feel the awkwardness splitting him in two. Illumi can tell that the others aren’t comfortable with the situation. He pretends to find the floor interesting, but the numbness at his back only cracks further. He looks at the door, willing it to finally open, but when it does, he wishes that it could close back again. Machi’s face is ducked, hidden beneath her hair. She folds her legs beneath her weight.

Hisoka comes back to Illumi’s direction, but he saunters off into the balcony, where he immediately lights a cigarette. Illumi blinks. He gracefully jumps up to his feet and follows Hisoka, ignoring the whir of noise behind him. He leans against the railings, looking down at the road. Before he can even say anything, Hisoka talks.

“We didn’t do anything,” Hisoka says, smiling. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know.”

But when Hisoka dives in for a kiss, and their mouths join together again like a closed book, Illumi finds himself reeling. Hisoka tastes of smoke, bitter and sweet. Hisoka’s tongue pushes inside his mouth desperately, hooking their teeth together like a bind. He closes his eyes, but even when he tries to erase it off his teeth, he can still taste the lie, smooth and hard as a pebble in between his lips.

 

~***~

 

The last thing Illumi has expected when he arrives home is his mother and the others waiting up for him. She’s seated poised on the couch. She patiently waits for him to close the door behind him before she turns to his direction. The atmosphere is too heavy, suffocating his lungs like gas. He hesitantly walks over to greet her, but when he takes a good look of her face, his heart nearly careens out of his chest.

“Mother,” he says, unsure. “Good evening.”

“Where have you been, Illumi?”

“At the library,” Illumi answers. “To study.”

Kikyo nods. “Ah, yes, of course. Were you studying with a friend of yours? Hisoka, is it?”

At that, Illumi’s body falters like a weed. His entire chest folds together until he’s no longer breathing. His teeth chatter against each other, and he tries to hold it back, but he only ends up numbing his gums in the process. His lips are trembling. He feels his body go cold, despite the heat. It feels like there’s an avalanche brewing inside him, just waiting for him to swallow it down his teeth. His eyes drift over to Milluki, who’s watching them on the farthest end of the couch, hiding his face behind his matted hair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mother,” Illumi says tightly. “I don’t know about the Hisoka you’re speaking of.”

Kikyo simply waves it away. “Oh, please, Illumi.” She laughs loudly. The sound echoes around the room like a trumpet. “You don’t need to hide this boyfriend of yours. In fact . . .” She meets his gaze, her eyes as cold as metal, her face blank. “Why don’t you invite him over for dinner?” She tilts her head and smiles. “Now, wouldn’t that be lovely?”

There is a beat of silence that keeps his knees from giving out. “Yes, mother. How lovely, indeed.” His heart pulses, and he thinks of Hisoka, asking himself whether Hisoka has kept Illumi’s heart in his palms, or if he’s already replaced it for hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like the new chapter! If you have anything to say, please comment! :)


	19. Bronte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback chapter.

Chapter Nineteen

 

September 2011

 

 

There are times when Killua is sure that Illumi is about to break. He can feel the rigid tension poling the square of Illumi’s shoulders, the expectations dwindling down his spine like a wheel, trampling the length of Illumi’s body. Illumi’s lips are always drawn tight, sewn. It’s like Kikyo has pricked Illumi’s lips with a needle and threaded his mouth together. Killua presses his own lips against each other to prevent the numbing sensation. Sometimes, he can see the visible stress at the corners of Illumi’s eyes. And he wonders how Illumi can possibly bear the expectations being handed to him like a gift – and how much longer it will take before he finally gives in.

Right now, he’s listening to Kikyo Zoldyck’s voice from the back of the door. Illumi and his mother are in the music room, discussing about another famous court case. Honestly, Killua doesn’t understand a single thing about what they’re talking about, but he also doesn’t give a shit. He won’t give in to his mother’s demands, no matter how hard Illumi tries to persuade him. They can suck his ass for all he cares. What does he know about the law, anyway? All he _is_ sure of is that the court hands in the wrong decisions everyday. Why would he want to go into a career where someone else will decide his fate for him? What kind of life will that be?

“Illumi!” Killua hears his mother snap. “Pay attention to the discussion!”

Then, comes Illumi’s faint response. “Yes, mother.”

This is another reason why Killua hates this family: Illumi is never given the chance to be a part of it. Kikyo Zoldyck can pretend all she wants, but she has never treated Illumi as his son. Mothers aren’t supposed to lock their children in a closet until they finally stop wailing. How many years has it taken for Illumi to clench his teeth? And how come no one ever bothered to listen to the gritting he makes?

When he hears the sound of footsteps getting closer, Killua sprints to the far corner of the hallway, ducking behind the edge. Kikyo Zoldyck bursts open the door, her face red. She’s fuming, stomping her way out of the music room with her papers flying behind her. Killua watches her sharply turn to the end of the hallway, and he lets out a small smile. He likes looking at his mother mad, which is probably why he does it all the time. Kikyo’s face is always strewn too tightly, as if all the cosmetics she’s put have finally surfaced. Not even makeup can hide the disgust on her face.

Killua enters the music room when the coast is clear. He’s not surprised to see Illumi unfazed, although his eyes are clear with pain. His family accuses Illumi of being too bland, but all Killua can see is the obvious mending of teeth, and the way Illumi stays on his knees, his heart at the center of his palms. The others may not notice it, but Killua does.

Sometimes, he can hear Illumi sneaking out of his bed and into the music room. He can hear the silent scream of Illumi’s bones, peaking out of his skin like rabid animals. He can hear the soft melody Illumi has on his fingers, pressing against the piano chords, making it sing against the edges of the room like ghosts. Even after years of mastering the instrument, Illumi still keeps his notes sheets in front of him. Killua wonders whether it’s because he’s too afraid to make his own, or if Illumi prefers to hear another person’s voice.

Illumi glances up from his notes, his fingers gripping the paper like it’s about to squeeze away from him. “Killua,” he says. “Were you listening?’

Killua shrugs. “Maybe.” He leans against the table, watching the sun seam through the windows.

Illumi looks at Killua’s face for a brief moment before he takes in the backpack, the skateboard attached to the back like a weapon. It’s clear that Killua means to leave the mansion. “You’re going away,” he says, a statement.

“I guess you can say that. I thought I should tell you because you tend to worry.”

“Does mother know?”

Killua shoots him a look, making it obvious that it’s another one of their secrets. Kikyo Zoldyck prevents her children from going outside. _Why_ she does that, is a question Killua still finds trouble answering. Chances are, her children will get kidnapped for bearing the Zoldyck name. But Killua doubts that’s hardly the case. No, Kikyo is afraid that once they get the marbled taste of freedom on their tongues, they will no longer have a reason to come back – and Kikyo won’t be able to find them.

“What if you get caught?” Illumi asks, shifting uncomfortably.

He understands. The last time Killua was caught, Illumi had to take the blame. He absorbed their mother’s wrath like a phoenix, swallowing her fire until the forest of his bones are turned to ash. Illumi has stepped in front of him to prevent the death blow, but how much more can he take before he finally chokes on them all?

“What if,” Killua says. “But I won’t, because I’m that good. You don’t need to worry about me, dear brother. And do tell mom to fuck off.”

His brother closes his eyes, letting that sink in. Being the obedient and perfect son that Illumi is, he tries not to backlash at their mother’s antics. Whenever Kikyo spits fire at him again, he only withers back. And Killua hates that. Illumi has to grow a dick, if ever he wants to get away from this hellhole. Even Milluki can smell the bullshit coming from their brother’s lips.

Killua places a hand on Illumi’s shoulder and grins widely. “Or give her the finger for me. Either way, I’ll appreciate it.” He finally hops away. “Don’t worry too much.”

He’s at the door when Illumi struggles to his feet. “Wait,” he croaks out, reaching out slowly for Killua, as if the meters of space between them aren’t the size of an ocean. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”

Killua sneaks a glance at him and stares at the carpet floor. “I wish I didn’t have to,” he whispers, before he flashes his brother a grin. “I’ll be back by lunch. See you.”

He closes the door behind him, his blue eyes flashing wildly at the tinted windows. He stretches his arms, and the sun hits his hands. Even when he catches a glimpse of it, he still can’t taste the freedom he wants.

 

~***~

 

Dandelions are growing in between the open trenches of the piano. Chords are adorned with turfs of vines, blooming under the sight of sunlight from the open balcony. The wooden boards look like they’ve been eaten by termites. The edges are pointed like animal teeth, almost as if they’re preventing people from taking a seat. When Chrollo produces a soft tune, the piano bursts to life at a weird angle, enveloping the music like a fruit.

He is seated on a wooden bench, and his fingers are splayed over the piano chords like sand dunes. He hasn’t touched the instrument in a while, although he keeps on imaging himself playing the piano, even when there isn’t any in range. Hisoka found this place a month ago, when he realized that Chrollo’s stubbornness could only come from too much deprivation. Now, Chrollo’s feet are stamped over the creaking floorboards. But what really draws him in isn’t the piano; it’s the voices looming behind the walls.

He can hear the wails and the grating of teeth behind the wood, the scratching and the leering of nails against the ceiling. Sometimes, Chrollo can even hear the words in the shell of his ears, voices overlapping the shore until the letters tangle together. Chrollo doesn’t recognize any of the voices he hears. But he guesses that that is what he finds captivating: knowing that he’s not the only one being haunted.

When he presses his fingers against the piano, the sound resonates against the open room. He closes his eyes, letting the music breathe inside him like a lung. Unlike other people, he doesn’t base of music sheets to play. He has never practiced on Sergei Rachmaninov, or Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky, but he has his personal favorite: Gustav Mahler. The pianist is said to make grown men weep, to make women lose consciousness in the middle of the concerto.

But it’s not the talent that keeps Chrollo intrigued; it’s the deep meaning behind the tune that forces him to stay on his feet. Gustav’s compositions are always engraved with sharks, forests, and shadows – all the things that make people want to hide and cower. But Chrollo finds himself mesmerized by the very fact that Gustav has death written on his knuckles like a warning sign, a stoplight, and a way to tell people that he’s wondering what’s on the other side.

Chrollo pushes that thought away and concentrates on his own music, even though Gustav’s melody is still whirring at the back of his head. He presses another note to keep himself steady. Before long, his fingers start shaking as they walk around the piano in a dance. His eyes are still closed when the melody begins to heighten, stumbling over deep notes and light ones, the contrast beginning to take place.

He isn’t surprised when he suddenly thinks of Hisoka. He imagines the man’s fingers, constructed with so much passion that it fissures together; he thinks of the man’s eyes, the golden remedy of it, like a ring taking shape; and he hears Hisoka’s voice in the shell of his ears, effulged like a lighthouse.

 _How long,_ Chrollo asks himself, _will it take to be found?_

 

~***~

 

It’s not that hard to sneak out of the Zoldyck estate. All Killua has to do is make sure that no one sees him. Of course, there’s also the problem with the security camera. Most of them are stapled to the corners of the walls. Even worse is the fact that they’re incredibly tiny. Most intruders won’t even take a second glance at it, which makes it easier for the security people to capture whoever is inside; that is, if someone _can_ get inside. Besides the cameras, the walls are heavily guarded with security guards. But the advantage Killua has over them is this: he has everything memorized.

He knows that the guards switch places once in a while. Their shift ends at nine, and then it will start again at ten. During that hour, only four guards in each section replace the three guarding the walls. So, each wall originally has three guards, but in between nine and ten, only one guard is present. With that advantage, Killua can easily sneak out of the mansion unnoticed. Considering that one guard can’t possibly look at the wide span of the wall, Killua can use his tiny peripheral vision to head out.

Now, he’s halfway toward the gate with the guard facing the other direction. Killua snickers to himself as he ducks behind a rosemary bush, the leaves getting stuck in the silver wires of his hair. “Ha, suckers,” he mutters, chuckling. “Can’t even catch a kid when they want to.”

When he’s sure that he’s safe, he grips the vine attached to the wall, wreathing its way on the other side. He tightens his hold before he finally climbs. When he’s at the top portion of the wall, he slides using the vine, breathing a sigh of relief when his feet touch the ground. He shakes the dust off his shorts and grins proudly.

Killua turns to a corner into the connecting part of the neighborhood, where they agreed to meet. His entire face brightens up when he sees the familiar green button down, with a white shirt underneath, and the dark cargo pants. He smirks at the wiggling of toes inside the open sandals.

“Gon!” Killua calls when he’s near enough.

The boy swerves back in surprise before a smile spills over his face, and Killua’s heartbeat raises an octave. “Killua!” His grin spreads wider as their bodies meet closer.

Killua memorizes this: the golden flecks of his eyes, the sharp and stringy black hair, and the sweet, honey colored texture of his warm skin. He keeps this in his pocket as a penny of memory, so that when they see each other again, he won’t wonder why his heart is beating so damn quickly.

 

~***~

 

In 2004, Akihiro Maki was convicted as a class a felon for killing his wife. Aoi Maki was found on her deathbed the morning after. She was killed with a kitchen knife, straight to the heart. There were bruises on her wrists, and the autopsy report said that Akihiro’s skin was found underneath her fingernails – to which the detectives concluded as signs of a struggle. Akihiro Maki’s excuse was his wife’s apparent inclination to suicide. But Aoi had breast cancer, and she was expected to die the following month. The defense attorney stated that Akihiro Maki didn’t wanted to let his wife suffer any longer. He deemed the death as euthanasia. Two months after Akihiro Maki was convicted, he had grabbed a weapon from the police’s arsenal and plunged it into his chest.

Looking at the case report, Illumi can feel his heart thump wildly in his chest. He feels like it’s about to bare its fangs and dive straight for his throat. He tells himself to focus on the task at hand. His mother will surely ask him questions about the case: Do you think Akihiro Maki was right to be convicted? Did the court make the right decision to put him in jail? What is your opinion about the case?

But she won’t ask the question tipping the edge of his tongue like a snake: Was Akihiro Maki wrong to kill his wife?

Illumi asks himself what Akihiro Maki felt when his wife dead in his arms. Illumi wonders whether the knife fit so tightly in between his fingers that he felt like it was a part of him. How can anyone love someone so much that he’ll even give her death? Illumi’s hands are shaking on the paper, and he uneasily clips it back inside the folder. He tries to breathe, but every time he moves, he feels like his throat is suffocating.

It takes him a moment to realize that Akihiro and Aoi Maki died the same way – with the same hands, the same intention, the same weapon, and the same love. Akihiro Maki couldn’t bear to see his wife hurt, so he did the only thing he could to stop it. Afterwards, Akihiro Maki couldn’t take his own pain, and he followed his wife on the other end of the line.

Is that what love is – to feel something so deeply that they both cease to breathe?

Illumi clenches his shirt, trying to prevent his heart from leaping out. If he offers his heart to someone else, will they accept it and keep it in his or her palms for keeping? Or will he or she pull away from him, as if the thing he’s offering is nothing short of agony?

He suddenly lifts himself to his feet and watches the sun set against the windows like wind pikes. In this big of a room, it’s no wonder that he feels alone.

He closes his eyes. If he gives his heart away, will it find a home?

 

~***~

 

“So?” Phinks prompts. “What do you think?”

Feitan stops passing the ball and twists it in between his fingers. They’ve been playing baseball for a while now, or if anything, they’ve been _catching_ the ball for a while now. Phinks can’t play baseball for shit, although he is a really good batter. Feitan sighs and tosses it again. The ball flashes toward Phinks before it rounds at a corner, imitating a perfect curve ball.

Phinks struggles to catch it. “I told you to go easy on me, asshole.”

Feitan shrugs. “Do I give a shit?” he asks, lifting both eyebrows. When he realizes that Phinks has none, he sighs. “Look, it’s Machi’s life. Don’t get involved in it. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want your dick stuck in her ass.”

Phinks’ face turns bright at the comment. “I’m not – ” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to have sex with her, all right?” When Feitan gives him a look that shows how little he believes the statement, Phinks’ neck turns red. “Okay, maybe I do. _But_ the point is that Machi is just asking for trouble.”

Trouble. Honestly, what does Phinks think they’re doing? They’re playing – _catching_ the ball – in the middle of a graveyard. Feitan can feel the eyes of ghosts surrounding them like bees. If they get caught, then that’s also asking for trouble. They literally steal random things in order to live. If that’s not living the life of a criminal, then Feitan doesn’t know what is.

Finally, Feitan purses his lips in annoyance. “Does it really matter? Machi can do whatever the hell she wants without you watching her like a hawk. If she wants to date some guy who can’t get his zipper straight, that’s not our problem. Unless . . .” Feitan stares at Phinks hard. “You make it one.”

Feitan understands what Phinks is coming from. He’s had a crush on Machi ever since she joined the troupe. Granted, she’s gorgeous, and she’s smart, and sometimes, hanging out with her is enjoyable. But while they’re members of the troupe, they have their own lives. Chrollo, their leader, made it clear that the spider is not a whole, no matter how connected they are. Because once they lose someone important, the entire spider falls apart.

“All I’m saying,” Phinks continues, “is that Machi shouldn’t like him.”

Feitan shakes his head as he twirls the baseball in his palm. “She never said she did.”

When Feitan throws him another curve ball, Phinks catches it perfectly. “She doesn’t have to.”

 

~***~

 

Silva isn’t surprised when the door suddenly flies open, his wife standing in the middle of the room like a stiff pole. He gives her a brief glance over his glasses before he removes it from his face. He folds his fingers together and leans back. He feels like he’s in a business meeting, instead of seeing his beautiful wife stride up to him, her face as red as a cherry. He’s seen Kikyo this mad before, so he’s used to it. But every time they meet each other’s eyes, Silva half hopes that he’s seeing someone different – or maybe just the woman he’s fallen in love with.

Because the more days pass, the more Silva can’t recognize this family.

Kikyo stands in front of him, arms crossed.

“Yes?” Silva asks, gesturing Kikyo to take seat. But she stays firm on her feet.

“It’s Illumi,” Kikyo sighs, sounding absolutely hopeless. She finally slumps on the leather chair, covering her face in her hands. “Did you read his application?”

Silva eyes the manila folder sitting on his desk. “I did. I’m rather impressed by the maturity he has. His essay is astounding.”

“Astounding,” Kikyo repeats, dazed. “Yes. Of course.”

Silva watches her expression change. The anger turns to uneasiness, and her eyes look tired, as if she’s been the one being pressured. He’s not blind. He knows fully well what his wife is doing to their son. Illumi has been going with her to courtrooms, discussing trials, talking about famous court cases all over the world. Of course, this is all a part of his training to become a lawyer. But every time Silva sees Illumi, the more he isn’t sure whether it’s the same boy who used to lick his chocolate-coated fingers; the young child who used to go to the play-off games at baseball season; the teen who urged his daddy to listen to him play the 18 Etudes by Ligeti.

He has seen his son grow overnight, and he wonders whether his wife has watched the same forced evolution.

“You’re not contented by it,” Silva states. “Why?”

Kikyo rubs a hand over her face and turns to Silva with the same exhausted look. “Because,” she says, “who would have sympathy over a criminal? I certainly didn’t, when I won all those court cases.”

Silva pinches his eyebrows with his fingers. “He’s not – ” Silva sighs. “He’s not you, sweetheart. I’m sure he’s proven that to you a hundred times.”

At that reply, Kikyo leaps to her feet, absolutely enraged. “ _No one_ should have sympathy over a criminal. Especially not him!” She swerves back in the direction of the door, stomping her way to the exit. But before she leaves, she glares back at her husband. “What will people think when they read his application? Goodness, Silva, what is your son _thinking?_ ”

Finally, she slams the door behind her.

Silva watches the door swing back at the impact, and he can almost see a trail of fire from the soles of his wife’s feet. He closes his eyes for a moment, massaging his temples. _Maybe,_ Silva thinks, _that’s not what you should be asking._

 

~***~

 

It’s not unusual for Hisoka to suddenly barge in Machi’s apartment, like he owns it. He doesn’t like keeping even a little bit of decency, especially when every time he comes in, he catches Machi doing the most exciting things. Sometimes, she’s folding her laundry, and he sees a pair of sexy lingerie peeking out from the covers. Other times, he drops by and he can smell the lavender scent of her skin, emanating from the bathroom like fog. Even better is when Machi looks unruffled and unprepared. Her hair will string against each other like chains, and her tank top will stick to her skin. A strap will click loose from her shoulder and flow downward. And Hisoka can no longer find the will to take his eyes off of her.

Now, he’s striding into the kitchen, where he senses the smell of grease. Machi is sitting on top of the kitchen counter, popping a piece of fry in her mouth. She glances up at him and rolls her eyes. “I always forget to lock my door,” she curses.

“You do,” Hisoka agrees, pulling out a stool. He takes a seat and chews on a piece. “I can’t believe you were eating fries without me.”

“Last I checked,” Machi says, “it wasn’t my responsibility to feed you.”

“Are you kidding?” Hisoka laughs. “It’s written in the rule book. Always invite your friends when you’re eating something that’ll make you fat.”

Machi smiles and pats her flat stomach. “As you can see, I am perfectly okay with my body.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.”

Machi only sighs, almost in defeat. She hops off the counter as Hisoka pulls the plate of fries closer. This is what he likes most of all: how casual they are. Machi doesn’t bother to tell him to go out, and Hisoka _won’t_ , even if she forces him. But it’s the fact that Machi can move so easily beside him, and he follows her trail like a wolf. It’s almost ordinary, as if they’ve been doing this for years, instead of weeks. Sometimes, he stays in his apartment and he finds himself looking for her, straining his ears to hear her voice. But then, he’s greeted by a shrilly silence.

She grabs a bowl and slips the ketchup into it, throwing away the plastic wrapper. When she leans against the counter, Hisoka can see a sliver of her chest. He forces himself to look away.

“Have you finished your History assignment?” Machi asks. She chews on a fry. “The one in the Victorian Era?”

“Nope,” Hisoka answers. “You know better than to ask me that.”

“Oh, I know. But I was _hoping_ that you can actually get your fix.”

“Ah.” Hisoka nods, draping the fry with ketchup. “Tell that to me when I finish my current project. Then, _maybe_ I’ll think about it.”

Machi laughs. “What are you working on, anyway?”

Hisoka shrugs. “Chrollo asked me to do another artwork for him.”

“About?”

“Life. Death. Cigarettes,” Hisoka offers. Honestly, he doesn’t know what Chrollo wants. But last time, Chrollo came up to him with a sharp look in his eyes, and his were pursed around the circle of a cigarette. Hisoka had watched the smoke enters his lips like a kiss, gnarling against Chrollo’s teeth until the man is gritting his together. He turned to Hisoka, and he said, “What would you do if your body was numbered?”

When Hisoka didn’t answer, Chrollo added, “Paint me a picture.”

Machi pops another fry in her mouth. “You should ask him to be more specific.”

“But that’s the complexity of art, isn’t it?” Hisoka smiles drily.

He reaches for another fry just when Machi chooses to do the same. Their fingers brush against each other, and Hisoka has to tell himself not to pull away. Their eyes meet in a static. When Machi shakily moves her hand further, trying to close over Hisoka’s wrist, he jolts away before casually slumping back in his seat.

He ignores the electricity crackling inside his skin like teeth. He reminds himself that he shouldn’t feel anything.

 

~***~

 

The thing he hates about taking trains is that it’s smoke-free. That means that Chrollo has to wait until the trip is over before he flashes his cigarette like a candle. No one likes to smell smoke underneath their noses like the next feces, but like any other rebel, Chrollo doesn’t want to be controlled by the authorities. His lungs feel empty without the smoke heaving its way past his throat. He cracks each of his knuckles until he hears the satisfying snap. Beside him, Hisoka looks uncomfortable.

Hisoka doesn’t like being on trains. He says that it’s too crowded, and he may as well take the taxi, despite the huge amount to pay. But what Hisoka doesn’t understand is that the sweat rolling in between his shoulders, the twinkled eyes of the windows, and the soft hum of the train tracks, are what make this trip memorable. Sometimes, Chrollo looks at all these people around them, and he’s once again fascinated. He stares at the mother, her child propped on one thigh; at the businessman with the newspaper, constantly checking his phone for a light to break over his face; and at the young girl by the entrance, her thigh peeking out from her short school skirt, trying to catch his eye.

These are the things that Chrollo tucks in his pocket like a memory, because he knows that when he dies, these are the things he wants to remember.

But that isn’t the top of his list.

He glances at Hisoka again, who’s grabbing on to the railings above him to support himself. Finally, Chrollo cracks open his lighter and places a cigarette in between his teeth. Almost immediately, some people glance up in surprise, and they look at the no smoking sign just to make sure. However, none of them take the risk of reminding him about the policy. And not even Chrollo will listen.

He inhales a wad of smoke in between his teeth, closing his eyes. He can feel the sky of it crawl into his lungs like a raven, kissing the insides of his bones until he can finally breathe. It’s not that darkness that scares people, he thinks, it’s what comes after it. But Chrollo isn’t afraid of the curtain shading the other side. He wants to unravel it with his own fingers and see what kind of monster is waiting for him.

“You’re not supposed to smoke here, you know,” Hisoka reminds him. His arm brushes against Chrollo’s, and the man is suddenly slinking back. Hisoka’s warmth passes through him like the underside wing of a seagull – rained and showered with light. Hisoka points to the poster, unaware of Chrollo’s thinking. “Policy, remember?”

Chrollo smiles a little. “Does it matter?” He inhales the smoke again, keeping it in his mouth. People won’t get a taste of it if he swallows. “I thought we were way past that by now.”

“I’m used to it,” Hisoka corrects. “It doesn’t mean that I like it. It still smells like shit.”

“I think,” Chrollo says, pulling the cigarette away from his mouth to face Hisoka, blowing the cloud of smoke right on Hisoka’s disgusted expression, “that’s what I’m going for.”

Hisoka rolls his eyes and waves the smoke away.

Chrollo sighs and looks at the window, gesturing to it with his hand. “Why don’t you shut up and just sketch the view we have here.”

“That’s surprisingly the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”

But Hisoka whips out his sketchbook and his pen. He folds it to a blank page, running his fingers over it to prevent any creases. Chrollo continues to watch the sun splay over Hisoka’s face in the crystal reflection of the windows. He absorbs the man’s lips the curved wing of an angel, the concentration bearing on his face, the way the light seems to sink into Hisoka’s skin like a rafter.

And he thinks: _this is what I’ll always remember._

 

~***~

 

 

Even Hisoka has to admit that the view is worth it. His fingers are gripped against the pen, with his other hand holding the sketchbook for support. He can smell Chrollo’s breath on the roof of his mouth, gurgling like lava lamps on his teeth. It smells bitter and flakey. But he rubs over his teeth, spreading them until each has gotten a taste. No matter how many times he tries to remind himself, he has to make Chrollo’s presence stay.

He glances up and looks down again, trying to perfect the iridescent features of Chrollo’s face. He shades the eyes until they’re dark enough. He pokes the soft bump of Chrollo’s nose. When he’s done, he’s not surprised to see Chrollo still watching the vibrant glow of the fields stretch in front of him, instead of Hisoka’s drawing.

Hisoka licks his lips and wishes that, for once, Chrollo would finally see what he’s missing.

 

~***~

 

“Are you sure that you want to do this?”

For the first time in his life, Illumi is sneaking out of the Zoldyck mansion. It’s nearly midnight, and the moon is winking at him from the open mouth of the sky. He can feel the stars licking its fire against the back of his neck, watching the two Zoldyck brothers exit the mansion like runaways. Illumi’s feet are shivering over the cold vents of the sidewalk. He is shrugging his jacket on to prevent his skin from freezing over. But that doesn’t stop him from walking alongside his younger brother.

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Are you absolutely, positively sure that you want to do this?” Killua presses.

Illumi sighs. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Good,” he says. “Because now, you’re not getting away.”

When Killua came to his room, his blue eyes even more electrified, Illumi originally thought that something was wrong. But his brother only wanted to ask him if he wanted to come with. They were going to go to the tallest building in the neighborhood. It was an abandoned hotel. Sometimes, people could hear screams coming from the rooms – an evident cry for help. Killua was curious, and he wanted Illumi to go with him to check it out.

Illumi, in such a rush to catch up, forgot to put on his shoes. So, now his feet feel like they’re on the first trip to hypothermia. Killua is already pulling ahead of him, climbing up the stairs to the top floors. As they ascend the building, Illumi thinks that the rumors are probably true. He can hear the sharp wails of people coming from the banisters, the crumpled clashing of teeth against the walls, and the slamming of hearts against the pillars of glass. Illumi looks around, wanting to hear more. Is his own heart going to wail the same anguished song when he’s dead? Will Killua still be around to bear it?

Looking at his shivering toes, maybe there isn’t really a difference.

Finally, Killua leads him to a wide span of a room. He trots over to the edge of the building, spilling his feet over the boundary like a comet preparing to take flight. He urges Illumi closer, and Illumi sits down beside him, relieved to feel the warm breeze of the midnight glow under his toes. But beside him, Illumi can feel the shift of cool underneath Killua’s skin, like a glacier just waiting to pierce something. Illumi almost reaches out for him, but he stops himself.

“How did you find this place?” he asks, instead.

Killua shrugs. “Gon mentioned it to me today, and it got me interested. He said that there was a bombing here two years ago, so it was before we were living on the street. A lot of people died. Families were lost. Lovers were gone.” He turns to Illumi, his eyes as bright as a handmade constellation. “I could hear it, you know? The cries, the screams, and everything. Even until now, I can’t get it out of my head.”

Illumi listens to it, crashing against the back of his ears. But despite the noise, he can still trace the beat of Killua’s words like a record. He never wants to get rid of the tune.

Killua’s voice drops to a whisper. “Can you feel it, too, Illumi?”

Suddenly, he’s hit by a memory of them – they’re playing under the snow, and winter has just hit the neighborhood. Killua’s nose is as bright as a cherry. Illumi catches a snowflake on his tongue. Somehow, it’s as cool as the ice of Killua’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Illumi says softly. “I can.”

This time, he looks at the moon, watching over them. He can see the city lights reflected on its orb like a wielded glass. And if he looks close enough, he can see Killua, as bright and vibrant as Orion’s constellation. He sees the face of his brother, stroked by the wink of the moon. He closes his eyes, with Killua’s face branded on his eyelids. He thinks, _this is something that I’ll never forget._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like this chapter! Please comment if you have anything to say. I like hearing your opinions. ~ :)


	20. Atlas' Hands

Chapter Twenty

 

November 2013

 

 

Silva doesn’t think he’s gotten this intimate with his wife in years. An hour ago, they were in Silva’s study, discussing about the Gordon case over a cup of coffee. But Kikyo moved in to compress the space between them, and Silva felt himself falter. He gave in to the mellow sweetness of Kikyo’s lips and the paper flutter of her touch on the back of his neck. Silva carried his wife to the connected bedroom, and the minutes passed over their shoulders like the moon.

Now, their bodies are sprawled over the bed in tangled sheets. Silva’s fingers are weaved in the locks of Kikyo’s hair. He’s trying to figure out the texture of them. He doesn’t usually see his wife’s hair without a bun, and he hasn’t kissed the strands in a long time. Silva presses his lips against the blade of Kikyo’s shoulder, trailing down the slope of her neck. But almost as fast as they’ve linked themselves together, Kikyo draws away from her husband.

She gathers the sheets around her body and hops off the bed. She turns back to him for a brief moment, and this time, Silva can see the woman he’s gotten used to, instead of the woman he fell in love with years ago. He can remember the moment Kikyo used to brush her fingers against the stubble on his chin, how she had leaned over the desk to distract him from his work, and Silva could still recall the sliver of skin she presented to divert his attention.

Even when Silva has seen the whole thing, has mapped out the rest of her with his lips, he knows that he has once again lost her to something different.

Silva props himself on an elbow, staring down at the creases she left on his bed. Kikyo now has that natural glow to her, hugging her curves like a dress. Silva wishes that it never left.

“What,” he says slowly, “exactly are you planning?”

Kikyo has the nerve to pretend to misunderstand. “What ever do you mean, dear husband?”

Silva knows that _she_ knows what he’s talking about. When Kikyo wanted to invite Illumi’s apparent boyfriend to dinner, everyone was shocked. Illumi was the only person who hid it so well Silva thought his son had already snapped inside. Even until now, he can hear Illumi’s bones breaking, showing his heart for everyone to see. But Kikyo will only disregard it as forgotten treasure, not something she’d like to keep. Silva has seen his son mend himself together with whatever remains he has left; what more can Illumi lose before his mother finally realizes that he’s given everything?

“This . . . Hisoka. What do you know about him?”

Despite his reluctance with Illumi’s relationship, Silva doesn’t actually know who this boyfriend is. He’s heard from Milluki that records are unhooked from the Internet, almost as if the man has never existed. But Silva hasn’t seen his son this happy in a long time. It’s a brief change, but it’s obvious. Now, Illumi can’t wait to get out of the dining room. He rushes to school, as if there’s something about that place that’s luring him in. He no longer spends nights walking in the hallways of the mansion like a ghost. And Silva can no longer hear his silent screams in the fabric of his pillowcase. He wakes up dry and placid, instead of the usual cold sweat.

He wonders if Kikyo has also felt it.

His wife stares at him hard. “What I know,” she hisses softly, “is that he doesn’t deserve my son.”

Silva returns her gaze with the same fire. “And what makes you think,” he says, “that you do?”

 

~***~

 

Machi has never seen Hisoka look this ridiculous. He usually carries himself with this kind of artistic grace – the thing she wants to bend over with her fingers just to catch him off balance. But now, Machi doesn’t even have to do it, because Hisoka comes to her kitchen like a trotting penguin. He leans over the counter, careful not to stretch his suit too wide. A _suit_. A fucking suit. Machi didn’t even think that kind of clothing existed in his closet. But the suit fits him perfectly, attached to the broad span of his shoulders, with the collars hiding the tint of pink on his neck.

“You look uncomfortable,” she observes, stabbing another piece of pasta on her plate. “Where are you going to? Cinderella’s ball?”

“I look handsome,” Hisoka corrects. “And no, I’m going to the Zoldycks.”

That takes her by surprise. “The Zoldycks? You mean . . . Illumi’s family?”

“That’s right. They invited me for dinner.” Hisoka steals her fork and inserts the risotto in his mouth. Machi stares at the spot his teeth have scraped, at the portion where his lips met. “So, do I look presentable or what?”

Machi looks away. “You look like you’re trying too hard.” That’s a lie, and even Hisoka can hear it. Hisoka looks like the kind of man who’s ready for the red carpet. His vibrant hair is slicked back; the suit is firmly kissing his body like a pearl. Machi doesn’t think he’s ever seen Hisoka more handsome, but then again, her memory is already clogged with images and photographs of him – too many to ever put into a mental collage.

But maybe Hisoka doesn’t recognize the obvious lie, because Machi can see the hint of disappointment crossing his eyes. _What more_ , she thinks, _can you not see?_

Almost immediately, Hisoka covers it with a smirk. He straightens himself up and fixes the collar of his shirt. “The tie was too much for you?”

Machi laughs, glancing at the burgundy color hanging across his neck. “No, I think it looks even better than your hair.”

“Now, _that_ is something I refuse to believe.”

Machi has refused to believe a lot of things – like how Phinks’ feelings for her are even genuine, or that Hisoka can ever take care of himself when she’s not around, or that all of his paintings are not perfection, or the fact that Hisoka can ever replace her. But look where she is now, constantly trying to convince herself that Hisoka is still wrapped around her finger like a thread, instead of a string that’s swiftly unraveling itself.

People like Hisoka have never been cut loose, because you know fully well that they won’t bind themselves to you.

“Hey, Machi, can you fix my tie?”

Hisoka is absently fiddling with the fabric, trying to loosen it around his neck. Machi almost imagine it as a rope, instead. She gets to her feet and snaps Hisoka’s hands away from his tie. She unwraps it from his neck and presses her fingers against it to avoid the creases. Then, she encircles it around his neck again and ties it perfectly, pulling the knot upwards. She pats his chest with a smile.

“You’re really serious about him, huh? Since you’re meeting his family.”

Hisoka grins back. “Let’s hope they’re swooned by my charm.”

Machi snorts and ducks her head, hiding the pain from her face with the curtain of her hair. “Yeah, right,” she says, but her tongue is threatening to tell the truth: _You were never mine to lose._

 

~***~

 

Hisoka doesn’t like suits. But it helps that it makes him look even more handsome. However, the thing is itchy, like those silkworms are licking the entire span of his skin as a mockery. He scratches the back of his neck, aware that his nails are already digging against his skin like teeth. But he can’t control himself anymore; the more he tries to convince himself that he can do this, the more he wants to jump out of the train and leave. He grunts louder when he feels the itch grating against the length of his spine – a spot he can’t fully reach.

He’s watching the sun flash through the train windows like a comet, drifting toward the end of the floors. His golden eyes reflect the panes of light. This is his only consolation, he guesses: having to see the sunset against the womanly body of the mountains. The fields stretch wide like an ocean. Hisoka closes his eyes, letting the sun soak through his eyelids until his vision turns a bloody red.

_Was this the last thing he saw before he left?_

Unable to help himself any further, he pulls out his lighter and a cigarette stick. There aren’t many people on the train. Just a teenage girl with a magazine, smiling shyly at him over the thin lip of paper. He flicks on the lighter once he’s put the cigarette in between his teeth. The smoke curls over the edge like a flame, floating toward the windows and meeting the sun. Hisoka blows another one out. This time, it’s the shape of a ring. When it greets the light, the smoke turns into a lavender pink before disappearing completely.

It’s beautiful – and maybe that’s why it’s gone immediately.

Hisoka glances back at the girl when she stares at him, her blue eyes as wide as pebbles. He grins and offers her one in the pack. “You want to try it?”

Her head swiftly swerves to the no smoking sign. “Isn’t it wrong to smoke in here?” she asks quietly. Her knees are shaking, and Hisoka isn’t sure if it’s from fear or curiosity.

“Oh, that still exists?” Hisoka says innocently, tilting his head. He leans closer and winks. “Well, it can be a tiny secret between us.”

The girl bites her lower lip before she gathers up the courage to proceed. She stands in front of him. Her bones are grating so loudly that Hisoka can almost hear them begin to snap. She accepts a cigarette and hesitantly puts it in between her teeth. Hisoka puts the light against the other end and waits for it to catch the flame. He watches the girl take a rough smoke of the cigarette, closing her eyes as she inhales.

A moment after, she doubles over, choking on the smoke stuck in her throat. Hisoka softly pats her back until she finally regains her footing. “Careful,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you suffocating.”

Before the train pulls to a stop, and Hisoka exits the vehicle, there is something written on the fabric of his seat: _Is that what you did when you were still with me?_

~***~

 

Kalluto doesn’t know what’s going on in the household. Then again, she’s being overlooked so many times that she doesn’t belong in it. Milluki and Illumi are the only ones who notice her presence, although her eldest brother is usually too busy to glance at her twice. But it helps that Milluki makes her play video games with him when he needs a second player.

Now, her brother is cross-legged in front of his computer, practically smashing her player with a hammer. Kalluto watches as her player loses, and the fat sign flashes across her face like a billboard. She can tell that Milluki is anxious. His feet are shaking, and his thumbs are the only things that are allowed to. His eyes graze with uncertainty when he looks at her.

“Do you want to play a second round?” he asks.

What’s the point when she’s going to lose, anyway? But she clicks enter, and the game begins once again. This is a routine of theirs, and it’s one Kalluto is grateful for. Her parents are always busy, but that doesn’t excuse their behavior. Her mother is too focused on Illumi now, especially when he’s on his way to obtain the family firm. Sometimes, Kalluto looks at Illumi’s hands, and she wonders what kind of secrets he’s learning to keep. She wonders about the man Illumi is kissing.

Maybe Milluki also noticed, but Kalluto can see a deep bruise on the side of Illumi’s neck. It’s the shape of a fingerprint. It’s what the sky looks like when it’s hurting.

When the game is finished again, and Milluki pumps his fist in success, Kalluto stares at the screen. “Brother,” she says, “is Illumi happy?”

Milluki looks at her, surprised. He blinks out the shock and covers his head, swallowing. “I don’t know. But,” he continues, letting a small smile on his lips, “when Illumi’s with him, I think our brother is someone different.”

Kalluto tips her head to the side in wonder, and she realizes that that’s the only thing that matters.

 

~***~

 

They agreed to meet at the train station.

Illumi is waiting for him down at the farthest end of the flight of stairs, constantly looking at the clock hanging against the tip of the wall. Hisoka’s not late; he’s actually quite early. But Illumi feels like his chest is going to crumble at the edge. His knees are wobbling, shaking so furiously inside his pants that they feel like rattling cages. He tries to keep the oxygen in his lungs, but every time he breathes, he feels like a gallon is being burped out of him.

This is the first someone has had to meet Kikyo Zoldyck. But this is not the first time someone got caught.

Illumi should have been more careful. He should have pretended that Hisoka never existed, but that’s like trying to forget about his dreams when he can still hear the voices clearly. Hisoka is an image in his head that he can’t forget. Sometimes, it blurs through. Sometimes, his face is covered with static. But Illumi can trace the perfect outline with his fingertips, with his lips.

And he knows the feeling perfectly, because it always feels like he’s burning.

When the clock strikes five, Hisoka appears on time. He’s wearing a slick suit, with his hair gelled backwards. The clothing is hugging his broad shoulders. The white shirt is sticking to his abdomen. Illumi wants to run his fingers through it, see if it can fit through the entrance of Hisoka’s chest.

“You’re here,” Hisoka says, grinning. “Sorry for making you wait.”

He leans in to kiss Illumi on the lips, and Illumi greets him halfway. This time, Illumi can still taste the smoke, but his tongue catches something sweeter: a candy the size of caramel.

When Illumi envelops their fingers together, he can hear his heart beating in the calm lines of Hisoka’s palms. He can feel it pulsing against Hisoka’s veins, where Illumi made sure to keep it, so that even when someone else tries to grab it away from him, they won’t find anything.

Not when it already lives somewhere else. Not when Illumi has given it to someone who treats it like it’s made of the finest crystal, instead of something rotting.

 

~***~

 

It’s hard not to stare at Hisoka when he’s right in front of you.

Hisoka is taller than his brother. Unlike Illumi’s shadowed eyes, Hisoka’s is the vibrant shade of the sun. His skin is almost pink, as if his own body is burning from the inside out. Hisoka’s hair is also the color of the red dwarf. Suddenly, Milluki is hit by the realization that his brother is right: Hisoka is art himself, filled with so many colors than not one portion can be mentioned as dull.

But that’s not what’s catching Milluki’s attention.

He can almost see the wings strapped to Hisoka’s back with a loose string. He can imagine the flight of Hisoka’s body, as gratifying as the burn of a phoenix. This is someone who has played with fire, but instead of getting burned, he only swallowed it down his throat like a sleeping pill. Unlike Illumi, who has been staring in front of the ember, slowly letting flame envelop his skin until he no longer has to see himself begin to heat.

Suddenly, Milluki finally realizes what his brother sees in this man, why they fit so perfectly together that they almost seem like clasped fingers – and he wonders whether that’s worth the risk he’s taking. Again.

 

~***~

 

Kikyo Zoldyck is disgusted.

She didn’t think Hisoka would look this way. The unnatural ember color of his hair is unappealing. Although, she has to admit that his golden eyes are what keeps her entranced. However, she still can’t bear to look at him without pushing down the clog stuck in the tunnel of her throat. She doesn’t know what it is that repels her away from him, like he has an awful stench that she can’t endure. Her disgust turns even more obvious when she takes a look at the splotches of paint underneath his fingernails. Her frown deepens when she spots the breezes of yellow paint on the palms of his hands.

Clearly, hygiene is not a word for a man with such a low status. Kikyo can never be more ashamed.

When Hisoka arrived at the household, Illumi looked as if he wanted nothing more than for this night to be over. Honestly, Kikyo feels the same way. The moment she laid eyes on her son’s supposed boyfriend, she knew immediately that this was not someone who could provide her eldest child with the lifestyle he needed. Kikyo has worked hard to make sure that her children would live with comfort and ease. Anything that prevents her from doing that will be disregarded and trampled.

Hisoka can’t give Illumi a happy life.

The lodge in her stuck gets even bigger when she hears Illumi’s soft laugh on the other end of the table. It’s not a sound that she’s used to; it’s not something she’d like to hear again. But his voice resonates around the drums of her ears like a beat, music she’d rather forget.

And she wonders whether her disapproval of Hisoka comes from his lack of income, or the fact that Kikyo can feel her beloved son slip away from her like sand – and Hisoka is to blame for his way ashore.

Kikyo shakes her head, pushing the thought away.

“So, Hisoka,” Kikyo says. She stirs her wine glass in her hand. It’s the only thing keeping her alive in this execution. “Illumi has told me that you are a painter.”

Silva, who was laughing along with Illumi and the others for whatever Hisoka has said, turns to her with the same wide smile. Kikyo can see the glazed portion of his eyes where Hisoka has taken over. Even her husband is disgustedly charmed by someone like him.

“Hisoka here is an art student in the same university,” Silva says, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “Illumi says that his painting was featured in the school museum. Is he a good painter, son?”

“He’s more than good, father. He’s marvelous. You should see his work.”

“Oh, I’m not that great.” Hisoka laughs.

To everyone’s surprise, Illumi returns the grin with his own. “Oh, so now you’re modest?”

Kikyo’s smile is about to snap in half. Her face is stretched unnaturally as she tries to keep her face from breaking. Her lips go dry when she turns to look at her son, who is too engrossed by the man in front of him to look anywhere else. There is a bridge between them refuses to do anything but meet. It makes her sick.

Suddenly, her wine glass clatters to the floor, cracking in pieces once it meets the ground. Everyone turns quiet, and Kikyo can sense the familiar lightheaded feeling of the table that she’s used to. She keeps it tucked in the shell of her chest.

She orders the maid to clean it up. She ignores the way the wine is soaking the floors like it’s blood. What else is bleeding?

“I wasn’t talking to you dear,” she says to Silva. She feigns another smile that stretches a mile. Her lips feel like glass. She looks at Hisoka and finds the same cool golden eyes. It’s almost as if nothing happened. “So, you’re a painter. That’s certainly interesting. What do you paint?”

“Anything,” Hisoka says casually. He regards Illumi and the others, his audience. “I paint anything that inspires me. But if you’re asking for what style, I think you’ll have to see them for yourself.”

Kikyo is surprised at his offhandedness. It feels like he’s treating this event as something to laugh at when he gets home to his worn out apartment. Kikyo can almost the imagine words curling from his tongue, the mockery of Illumi’s mother. And that makes Kikyo even more disheveled, a rush of anger flooding in her throat until it’s as deep as an ocean.

“If you’re a painter,” Kikyo continues, cutting the conversation again, “then what income do you make? How much money do you earn?”

“I think you’ve mistaken, ma’am. I’m a painter,” he agrees. “But I’m not a professional. I don’t take jobs as of now. But I will in the future.”

“That’s quite an answer. This is your last year, correct? That means that you’ll have to find a job after your graduation.” Kikyo lifts an eyebrow. “This is a small town. What makes you think that you’ll actually earn?”

“Kikyo,” Silva snaps, his eyes flashing a warning. “Hisoka, you don’t have to answer that question. We’re not in a court. As of now, Kikyo,” he says, spitting the name like toxin, “you are not a lawyer, but a mother.”

Kikyo can hear the words after the period, the sentence he doesn’t want to let go from his tongue. _A mother – something you’re not._

But Hisoka shakes his head and easily gives her an answer. “My art professor is giving me an internship. I’ll be working with him after I graduate, which is a sure job. I believe that you have nothing to worry about.” He inclines his head to Illumi.

Kikyo smiles slowly. If the situation were different, she would have been impressed. He answers her questions with ease, as if the words are hanging loosely on his tongue, just waiting to be cut off. That’s something that a lawyer will find a challenge from a witness or a defendant. That’s something a lawyer is afraid of.

“And what makes you think that I am?” Kikyo wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Hisoka, do you love my son?”

This is what a lawyer is always looking forward to: the moment the person on the witness stand in caught off guard. She’s satisfied to see the flash of surprise crossing his features, but it dies down immediately. He opens his mouth to set the answer, but before he can, Illumi interrupts.

His voice cuts as sharp as a knife. Kikyo feels her skin being scorched, bitten by the heat of teeth, and the scent of smoke.

“Mother,” he says softly. He looks at Kikyo, and she can no longer see the son she loves. “Do _you?_ ”

The wild cloud of eyes show that even he can’t believe he said it out loud. But now that it’s out there for everyone to hear, he can’t pull it back. Kikyo’s throat is as dry as sandpaper. She tries to grate her words out, but it dissipates in between her teeth. This is the first time Illumi got the courage to actually say anything against her, and while this isn’t an obvious attempt, it leaves Kikyo scraped raw with anger. Her eyes swerve to Hisoka, spitting the blame right at his face.

Once she opens her mouth, everyone else is already back to talking. And even she can’t find the words she needs to hear. Her face is fueled with outright embarrassment.

Right in that moment, she realizes that she doesn’t disapprove of Hisoka for his status, or for the simple fact that his presence is a nagging slide of teeth. It’s because he’s trying to steal something she’s trying hard to keep.

 

~***~

 

“Well,” Hisoka says, “your mom is certainly . . .”

Illumi can almost hear the adjectives exploding in the pits of his mind. “Vicious?” he provides, the first word that comes as clear as a reflection.

Hisoka slumps back on his bed, wrinkling his crisp suit. “I was going to say different, but I guess that’s pretty accurate.” He lifts his head and narrows his eyes. “You . . . do you . . .”

“Do I what?”

The dinner is now over, and Illumi finally feels like the air is flowing freely in the room. A few minutes before, his chest was about to tissue together until they’re close enough to collapse in one heap. Now that they’re out of the dining room and in Illumi’s quarters, his throat doesn’t taste like a gas chamber. After he accidentally blurted out the words for everyone to hear, he immediately regretted it. Talking back is not a part of his routine; his mother will kill him if ever he changes it. Kikyo demands his full respect, so anything less than what she wants to be given is not wanted.

But even after the regret filled his throat like a tube, he took one look at Hisoka and knew that it was what he always wanted to do.

“Do you love her?” Hisoka says finally, and Illumi is taken off guard.

That question has never slipped in his mind. In the Zoldyck family, love doesn’t necessarily exist. They go by the terms “responsibility” and “obligation,” as if those words are the same as affection. Perhaps it’s because not one person in the family is openly affectionate with the other. Not even his father has touched Kikyo Zoldyck lovingly in years. Illumi can’t remember the last time their parents kissed, or maybe it was simply fished out of his mind before it could completely fit.

Now, looking at Hisoka, he wonders what the man is thinking. This is always the difficult part: Illumi never knows what Hisoka is planning. That leaves even more room for surprises. Whenever Hisoka catches him off guard, Illumi tallies it in his head. He reminds himself that he should return the favor. Hisoka will surely appreciate feeling the same unexpected affection.

He bites his lip, trying to make use of the words stuck in his throat like a fish bone. He lowers himself on Hisoka’s lap, and the red-haired man jerks upward, catching Illumi’s waist in the soft loop of his fingers. Illumi can practically feel the remains of paint on Hisoka’s fingers, seeping through the fabric of his pants and into his skin.

He notes this as his first win.

“Do I love her? What kind of question is that?”

“The correct one. You don’t have to answer, but I’m curious.”

Illumi brushes a finger against Hisoka’s lips. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Well,” Hisoka murmurs, “I’m not a cat.”

“Then, what are you?”

Hisoka doesn’t answer, because the perfect word is found at the base of Illumi’s throat. _You are a painter, an art student, and the first to burn me. You are art, and you taste like smoke._

When they both dive together for a kiss, Illumi fills Hisoka’s hair with his fingers, stroking his scalp until he can feel the heat against his skin. Their bodies splay back on the mattress in a messy heap. Illumi can feel the bed move under their weight, and he hears the soft grunt from Hisoka’s lips. He tries to block out any other sound that’s caught in the atmosphere.

Illumi hates this room. There are too many voices, caught in the cemented dividers connecting to the other side. When Illumi places his palms against it, the voices start moving. And when he sleeps at night, his pillowcase is an imitation of a sound recorder. It doesn’t stop; it only gets louder.

But when Hisoka opens his lips, just as Illumi parts his mouth for a deeper kiss, he finds himself losing in the presence of Hisoka’s heat, and the sound blurs out of the room like muted music. Hisoka clasps his arms around Illumi’s waist, and his breath is hot on Illumi’s teeth.

 _This_ , Illumi thinks, _is where I belong in_.

And as if Hisoka has heard him, he accepts Illumi completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the update took too long. I hope you like it! :)


	21. Under the Table

Chapter Twenty-One

 

November 2013

 

 

Hisoka doesn’t understand why Machi hates autumn so much. Because 1.) It’s the best time for coffee, and he can’t count the number of visits she’s had to the nearby coffee shop for the past two years; 2.) Crunchy leaves make the happiest sound known to man; and 3.) The color of the sun is the exact same ray of his eyes, making them as heavily coated as gold. But he guesses that that’s probably why she despises the season: because everywhere she looks, she’s reminded of him. And he knows that that’s not the kind of memory she wants imprinted on her eyelids.

“Well, aren’t you angry?” Hisoka comments, leaning against the supporting pillar.

Machi is angrily sweeping the leaves away from the sidewalk and unto the backyard of the apartment. Her muscles are trickling with sweat, and her forehead is already slick. Hisoka watches the perspiration dripping down from her chin to her neck, leaving a white heated trail down her skin. He nearly reaches out to wipe it away, but then he stops himself when she suddenly looks at him.

“I,” she huffs, “am angry because of _this._ ”

Hisoka only laughs.

Last night, Machi furiously sauntered into his room like a titan able to do anything. Her hair was as wild as forest branches, and her eyes were the color of frost. She complained to him about her adventure on the way to her work as a student assistant in the police department. She would help with short crime cases as an investigator. But with her skills, she could have easily passed as a professional. She told him about how she had to stick herself to the walls, so that she could avoid the grating sound of leaves from the pathway. She scraped the sidewalk raw with her feet. When she showed him her swollen toes, he only burst out laughing.

“You could have told the owner to take care of it,” Hisoka suggests.

Machi digs her fingernails into the handle of the broom and aggressively sweeps the leaves into the gathered pile. “I did,” she grunts. “But he told me that if I wanted to get rid of it, I had to do it myself.” She looks at him, her eyes wide. “So, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to erase every last autumn leaf in this place until winter comes.”

Hisoka whistles softly. “Won’t be long now. Just one more week, and you won’t have to see this everyday.”

“And thank God for that,” she mutters.

Hisoka stares at her as she continues to wipe the leaves away. Her eyelids are coated with blue veins, and her lips are as nearly as pink as the red dwarf of her hair. Sometimes, Hisoka looks at Machi and thinks of all the angles he can paint her in, but she will never agree to such a thing. She’s a mover, so if he asks her to stay on that stool, she will absolutely refuse.

As he waits for her to finish, he uses his fingers to form a box. He pretends to zoom in on Machi’s face, keeping an eye closed. He slowly pushes his hands forward before moving it back against his face again. Machi doesn’t even need to glance up to know that he’s doing something ridiculous.

“What are you doing?” she sighs, slowing her pace. Hisoka can see the obvious pink hue on the peak of her cheekbones.

“I’m trying to think of what colors to use when I paint you,” he answers, and he presses an invisible button for the nonexistent camera to shoot. “And that’s why I’m taking a picture.”

“Sometimes,” she says, “I wonder what’s really going on in your head, and then I remind myself that I don’t even want to know.”

That’s not a sentence she needs to say out loud; Hisoka knows that what he’s keeping and swallowing in the darkest portion of his mind is as empty as a black shell. There’s no way that she can reach out with her fingers to find useless treasure. Even Hisoka has nothing to keep that’s worth giving. But somehow, that’s not stopping her from trying to pry his shell open with her lips, even if that means that she’ll scorch herself in the process.

“No one does.” Hisoka smiles drily, but a hint of his lie glows like neon.

“He did,” she says. She’s stopped sweeping now. The leaves are neatly gathered beside her, as comfortable as a cloud. Hisoka can almost feel the warmth of the dead leaves against his skin. She looks at him, like she doesn’t recognize whom she’s seeing. “He always did.”

“Yeah?” Hisoka answers softly. “Maybe that’s why he left.”

Before she can give him an answer, he dives into the leaf pile, spreading his arms wide open to envelop the leaves into his body. He breathes in the stale and crispy scent of autumn into his nose. He shifts, so that he’s facing an angry Machi, her face gratefully blocking the sun from view. But he shields his eyes, anyway, because he knows that the sun can’t ever compete to her fuel.

“You did _not_ just do that,” she says, her voice hard. She’s gripping the broom so tightly that it looks like it may break.

“I obviously just did.”

Machi closes her eyes, and Hisoka finds himself wanting to open it again. “One day,” she vows, “I am going to kill you, and I am going to enjoy it.”

“And I,” Hisoka says cheerfully, “will patiently wait for that day. In the meantime . . .” He turns to the side and pats the spot next to him. He rests his head on the joined portion of his bended arm. “Sleep with me.”

Machi snorts. “Like I actually want to do that. You can go sleep with Illumi, if you want.”

Hisoka isn’t fazed. “Yes, but he’s not here at the moment, so I’m stuck with grumpy ole you. Come on,” he urges. “Just lie here with me and appreciate the sun.”

“There is absolutely nothing to appreciate,” she says, but she has already let go of her broomstick. She lowers herself unto the leaf pile, facing him. Suddenly, he’s reminded of how close their faces are getting. When she moves her knee, it brushes with the outer portion of his thigh. Her hand is nearing his chest, as if she’s trying to reach out for his heart and whatever he’s hiding there. He forces himself to move away from her before their bodies can get closer, but she curls her fingers like iron around the fabric of his shirt, preventing him from running away further.

Her eyes are cool as a glacier. “How did the dinner go?”

Hisoka shrugs with one shoulder. “It was okay. His mother was a monster, though. I think she hates me.”

Machi lifts an eyebrow. “Hard not to.” She laughs when she takes in his dry expression. “I’m kidding. But Illumi still likes you, regardless?”

He grins lopsidedly. “Is that even a question?”

Even before the dinner debacle, Hisoka knows that Kikyo’s opinion of him won’t change a thing. Feelings aren’t placed on a whiteboard with a marker. No one can just erase what they already had, not even his mother. Hisoka is fully assured that Illumi will stay with him, despite his mother’s disapproval. What can Kikyo possibly do to tear them apart?

Her fingers tighten. “That’s good, then. So, you’re happy?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Hisoka closes his eyes to avoid looking at obvious falter of her face. He can almost imagine the darkening of her pupils. He can feel the storm brewing up inside her eyes until she’s built up a wall. But no matter how hard she tries to strengthen the bricks, he always seems to find a way in. Maybe because Machi isn’t doing anything to prevent him.

When Machi begins to let go of Hisoka’s shirt, he reaches for her wrist, letting it stay that way. His fingers heat up at the touch of her, and his heart feels like it’s about to fold together. He can nearly form the words at the base of his throat. He opens his eyes and finds her staring at him, as if she no longer recognizes whom she’s seeing.

He looks down at their hands, at his fingers clasped around her wrist. He realizes with a startling jolt that this is the first time they’ve fully touched since the incident. His fingers are tightly holding on to her, and her own are as hard as steel against his shirt. They look at each other, their hearts pounding as loud as tornados against the leaves. It whirs against his shirt until it revolves around the panel of his breathing.

Machi lifts herself up, and she slowly presses her cheek against his. Her breath is cold against his ear. “What are we doing?” she says softly, her voice cracking.

Before he can give her an answer, he sees something black move from the corner of his eye. He quickly shoots upward, throwing the leaves away. He steers away from Machi as if nothing happened, but his bones are no longer made of the same substance. He looks at Illumi with a smile, breathing a sigh of relief when his boyfriend doesn’t look mad.

“You’re here,” he says. “And you brought pumpkins. Big ass pumpkins.”

Illumi shyly lifts the two paper bags in his hands. “You said you wanted to carve something.”

“You only brought two?”

Illumi shakes his head. “There are more in the car.”

Hisoka grins. “Oh, good. Then, we’ll smell like vegetables.” Illumi smiles back, ducking his head to hide it. Hisoka presses his lips together, unable to prevent his smile from widening. But he suddenly remembers Machi, and he swerves around to look for her.

He isn’t surprised when he finds the leaf pile empty. Her body has left a mark on the makeshift bed, reminding him of what he could have gotten, instead.

 

~***~

 

Apparently, it’s not that to gather more information when you know the right people.

Kikyo Zoldyck is looming behind the man’s shoulder. He’s managing the computer systems, searching and hacking sites to find more things about Hisoka – Illumi’s boyfriend. She drapes her fingers across her throat, as if just the taste of it when she’s thinking is something she needs to vomit. She wrinkles her nose and proceeds to the other side of the room.

When Hisoka exited the mansion, he carried his unwanted air with him. Kikyo was grateful for it. She didn’t want to smell him lingering in the corners of the walls. She didn’t want his sight watching over her at the bedroom door. But she still woke up in the middle of the night, wondering why she felt like she was suffocating. Even after she opened the windows of her quarters, she couldn’t get rid of the scent.

Now, Kikyo is trying to find all the information she needs about this man. She would not tolerate her son dating a man who would not suit her needs. Illumi needs someone with control and precision, not like Hisoka who is unfiltered and messy. She doesn’t care if he’s a painter, and her husband is intrigued by it. She doesn’t care if her son truly likes Hisoka for who he is.

This family is not to be treated as a joke. Hisoka will soon realize that.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Zoldyck,” the man calls. “I think I have the information you want.”

Kikyo rushes back. Her eyes are wide with anticipation. The man scrolls down on the screen before he gets off from the chair to let her sit.

There is a picture of Hisoka’s face; his hair is as red as a star. His golden eyes aren’t any different; they still look like they’re being burned. Kikyo reads through his profile. He has a financial scholarship in the school, which explains how he has gotten in. His parents are dead, and their profiles are already wiped away. But there _is_ something else that has caught her attention. It’s a segment on the newspaper.

As her eyes read past the lines, her thin-lipped smile finally begins to broaden. “Oh, my, Hisoka,” she murmurs. “Now, what have you gotten into?”

 

~***~

 

“I don’t really understand,” Illumi says, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Why are we carving pumpkins when November is about to end?”

“Because it’s never too late for Halloween.”

Hisoka is teaching Illumi how to carve a pumpkin with a satchel. They’ve already gotten rid of the orange flesh inside. Now, Hisoka’s hands are attached to his like a hook. He’s dragging Illumi’s fingers until they’ve gotten used to the movements. But Illumi doesn’t want Hisoka to let go, not when it means that his warmth will be carried with him. Because every time Illumi is alone, his entire body is a structure of glacier – and Hisoka is the fire that will heat it away.

“So, what do you want to carve?” Hisoka asks, lifting an eyebrow. “A smile? A frown? Some creepy face?”

“You,” Illumi says. “I want to carve you.”

Hisoka blinks at him, slightly surprised. But he laughs it off and shrugs. “All right, then. Me, it is.” He gives the satchel to Illumi as he walks back to his own place. He falls flat on the carpet, gathering the large pumpkin into his lap. Illumi can almost imagine the thing combusting at the contact.

Illumi fiddles with the satchel in his hand before he finally traces the outline Hisoka has made. This can’t be too hard, can it? “Do you do this a lot?”

“I used to. It was a yearly tradition with me and Machi,” he answers. He carefully pricks the pumpkin with his own utensil, licking his lips as he tries to concentrate on the task at hand. Illumi has never seen Hisoka try this hard for such precision. Hisoka usually does things with so much inhumane grace that even Illumi feels like he’s not seeing the real thing. “We bought pumpkins on the first week of November and decorate it in front of our rooms. Sometimes, we placed it out of the apartment gate and waited for the kids to get scared when the pumpkin suddenly burst into flames.” He smiles a little. “It was fun.”

Illumi finds it hard to swallow. He inserts the satchel into the pumpkin, hearing a comforting squirt. “How come you don’t do it anymore?”

Hisoka shrugs. “We got busy. And pumpkins aren’t exactly our top priority.” He glances up at Illumi and grins. “I thought I should try and get you in the zone, though. Carving pumpkins is the best way to forget things when you’re angry.”

Illumi looks down at the pumpkin in his hands and realizes that his chill has faded in the autumn air, replaced by the pleasuring heat of Hisoka’s skin, dug deep in his bones. He inhales the wafting scent of the pumpkin flesh and Hisoka’s room, and wonders if this is the smell of home.

Finally, Hisoka proudly places the expertly carved pumpkin on the coffee table. He leaps to his feet to get a candle from the cupboards. He places the lighted candle inside the pumpkin, and Illumi watches the fleeting orange globe scale into a lighted sphere. Illumi absentmindedly drops the satchel as he takes in the sight.

“See?” Hisoka says, breathless. “It looks like the sun.”

Illumi stares at the light scarlet hue of Hisoka’s eyes, and notices how the rest of the room is dim in comparison. Sometimes, Illumi looks at the way the sun is burning through the curtains, and he thinks about Hisoka’s hair, and how it glows like a red cloud. And sometimes, Illumi watches the sun rise against the bricked walls of his mansion, and he closes his eyes, letting the image of Hisoka burn through his lashes. Even the real thing can’t compare to someone like him.

“No,” he says. “That’s you.” And for once, he has actually swallowed the truth.

 

~***~

 

Machi figures that she doesn’t have to go around the world to have an adventure, when being in Hisoka’s kitchen is practically the same experience. Playing on her phone is a YouTube video. Hisoka found it a week ago, and he wanted to try doing it with her. The title is Waffle Falling Over – and it’s the most ridiculous video she’s ever watched.

Hisoka places the waffle on the kitchen counter. Machi can see his excitement bubbling off of him like the fresh scent of gum. He turns to her with a wide smile. “It looks fun, doesn’t it?”

“It looks like a waffle,” Machi replies, her face distorting into confused amusement. “A waffle that’s falling over.” She repeats the video, hearing the familiar plop when it touches the table. “I don’t really see the point of this.”

“I don’t, either,” Hisoka admits. “But it has over a million views, and I’m not risking the possibility that I may never do this. So, get your ass over here and watch this waffle fall over.”

Machi sighs in defeat and stands beside him in front of the counter. He bends down and intensely blows on the waffle until it finally splats flat. Before she can even react, Hisoka bursts out laughing, sighing in contentment. “That,” he exclaims, “was the best.” He grabs the waffle and takes a bite, nodding in approval. He pushes the waffle toward her. “Go have a taste.”

She stares at the bitten spot before she moves to the one untouched. “It tastes like strawberry,” she observes, munching. “And cream cheese.”

Hisoka winks. “It tastes like me.”

She doesn’t say it, but when the sweet texture sticks to her gums, she doesn’t dare remove it, just in case he leans down to kiss her and he tastes himself.

Hisoka swerves to his phone when it suddenly rings. At first, Machi thinks that it’s Illumi, making sure that his boyfriend is still thinking about him. But Hisoka is looking at an unregistered number. He glances at her with a question mark in between his forehead, and then he answers the call.

“Hello?”

Machi can only hear the sound of slight mumbling.

“Yes, Mrs. Zoldyck. This is Hisoka speaking.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. Mrs. Zoldyck?

The moment his face darkens up like a storm, she immediately knows that something is wrong. Because the last time she saw that kind of face, both of their hearts fell off each other’s chests and landed square on their feet – another kind of mockery. She also knows because the wall between them is as thick as steel, and when she reaches out for him, she feels like he’s not really here.

Hisoka’s voice is as tight as a rope. “Yes. Yes. I’ll meet you at Wednesday at the café. I’ll see you, then.” He shuts the phone and puts it on the counter, his face blank. He carefully sets himself on the stool.

“Hisoka,” she says, “what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

Machi leans back in surprise. His voice is as empty as his chest, like his heart is no longer there to beat for him.

He looks at her, his golden eyes the color of fear and bleeding. This is not the Hisoka she knows. This is someone different, someone who has his wings stripped off of him until he is as bare as skin. But unlike last time, she curls her fingers around his arm and pulls him into her embrace. His body is limp against her chest. She rests his head against her shoulder, and she closes her eyes when Hisoka slowly and reluctantly puts his arms around her.

“Is it so wrong,” he whispers, his voice catching, “for me to be happy?”

This time, she doesn’t need to ask what’s really the matter. She already knows what he’s going to say: _I don’t want to make the same mistake._

But this time, she cradles his head against her hand, burying her fingers in his hair. This time, she makes sure that he isn’t going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like the new chapter. Comment if you want to say anything, I love reading your reviews! ~
> 
> Also, thank you to babiri/seaofsound for the wonderful song. Definitely adding that to my Cigarette Teeth playlist. :)


	22. Robbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback. :)

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

September 2011

 

 

Kikyo Zoldyck is not a woman who should be kept secrets from. As a lawyer, she is required to know everything. She likes to interrogate. She likes to drill her client, the witnesses currently at the stand, the defendant. She wants to purge out their words and secrets until they are as hard as a pin on the palm of her hand, ready to prick her back. But that’s the thing, she guesses, because people like her aren’t easily wounded. Once they are hurt, the scar closes up, and something else is formed.

After all, lawyers aren’t humans at all.

She wakes up in the middle of the night, unable to find the usual screaming behind the walls. She turns to her husband, curled on the other side of the bed. His long, silver hair breezes against a portion of her shoulder. She reaches out for his sculpted back, but then she retrieves her hand before she can do anything reckless. She hasn’t touched her husband in months, although there are times when she misses him so dearly that she can longer breathe easily.

But of course, that need is a sin that she can never tolerate.

She gently clamps her hand over her husband’s shoulder. She blinks up at the ceiling, watching the midnight glow of the moon kiss the wrinkle of sheets. Even just the warmth of Silva’s skin is enough to make her dizzy. “Darling,” she says softly. “They’re gone.”

Silva shifts toward her, fluttering his eyes open. “Who’s gone?” he asks. His voice is deep with sleep and awfully groggy.

Kikyo closes her eyes to make sure. The screams are as silent as the stars tonight, and she’s desperately moving the covers just to get it to shrill in her head. This kind of silence is not accepted. Once, she woke up and found the screaming split into two. The other is found outside of the mansion, while the other is loud, as if it’s located inside the room. But this time, the noise is empty and dark. She never thought that the mansion could be this far apart.

“Killua and Illumi,” she answers. “They’re gone.”

Her husband looks at her with crumpled eyebrows. “Did you check up on them?”

Kikyo shakes her head. “I don’t need to.”

Silva sighs and rolls over, bringing the blanket with him. “Just go to sleep, Kikyo,” he mutters.

But Kikyo’s eyes are fully open now, the shape of an almond moon. She moves from the bed and wraps her robe around her waist. Then, she exits the room and proceeds to Killua’s first. She knows that he is the perpetuator. Her son has always been vigilant, which explains how both of them have managed to escape from the mansion. The bed is unmade, and there is a long pillow underneath the sheets. However, that is not enough to fool her. The cool pine smell of him is gone.

Next, she visits Illumi’s room. Unlike Killua, Illumi is more cautious. He would not dare make a scene, unless he is provoked. He would not sneak out of the mansion, unless his brother tells him so. Illumi is a doll that’s so hooked on getting out of the casket, he doesn’t realize that he is already dead. She swings open the door, and she isn’t surprised when she finds the room completely empty.

She can still smell him, the scent as putrid as bleach. Sometimes, Kikyo thinks that his son is acid. That’s why he has to stay away from everyone else, so that he won’t be able to poison them.

 

~***~

 

There are times when Illumi is afraid of his own mother. Kikyo Zoldyck is ruthless in court, but that is her job as a lawyer. He has seen his mother win court cases with grace and precision, although her inclination for going overboard is something that she ceases to lessen. Kikyo Zoldyck does not tolerate losses. In the end, her perseverance and utter skills will get her to win. Illumi figures that those aren’t enough, because even when she’s at home, he still feels like he’s getting grinded, like every person on the witness stand.

In that situation, there’s really no way that he can run.

They return to the mansion as quietly as they can, but the moment Illumi steps on the bare cobblestones, he already knows that something is wrong. You do not question the abilities of a mother; she can detect when her child is away. But for some reason, it’s like she never expected them to stay. On the other hand, she also makes sure that they never get away.

Illumi opens the door and hurriedly gets inside to avoid another blast of cold wind. Killua follows behind him, locking the door. They look at each other, the secret as sweet and longing as a grapefruit. “We made it,” he says, breathless. “We snuck out and returned.”

“Now, you know how good it feels,” Killua answers, grinning wide. “We’ll do it again, yeah?”

“Absolutely not.”

Illumi snaps at the voice. He brings a finger to his lips, surprised. He doesn’t believe that he has the ability to say no to his brother, which only means that the words weren’t from the curve of his mouth. He slowly turns around, and he isn’t shocked when he sees his mother lounging at the couch. The living room is dark, but the clear crystalized chandelier hanging from the ceiling is glinting like the kisses of diamonds. Kikyo presses the button of the remote, and the lights turn back on.

Beside him, Killua is shaking. From anger or from fear – Illumi isn’t sure. “What are you doing up, mother?” he spits, curling his hands into fists.

Kikyo smiles slowly. Illumi feels the familiar chill creep up the length of his arms. He closes his eyes, and he can finally feel the clasps around his wrists. This is a different chill from the one outside. This is unbreakable, this is unnatural, this is meant only for him. And yet, he embraces it completely, because he knows that there is nothing else he can do as easily.

“Oh, my, Killua,” she drawls. “I didn’t know you had the guts to help your brother sneak out. What did you do? Went to the city? Found a new festival to play in?”

“We broke free,” Killua grits out. “That’s what we did.”

Illumi blinks when his mother’s face darkens too deeply. Her eyes are the color of granite stones. When she speaks again, her voice is hard as boiling water. “You will never break free from this,” she says firmly, as if the alternative is suffocating. “You belong to the Zoldyck family, and that will not change.”

 _“Belong,”_ Killua exclaims, incredulous. “I don’t belong to anyone! And he – ” Killua points a quivering finger at his brother “ – doesn’t belong to you.”

Illumi replays the word over and over in his head until everything feels like falling over. _Belong_. It’s such a wonderful word, as sweet and round as strawberry. It is the perfect texture of the sun, and he wonders if it really belongs to anyone. Does that even exist? If his heart becomes unclasped and raw for the taking, will it find a place to belong in? Illumi looks down at the ivory tiles. Is that really what he has always wanted?

“Is that right?” Kikyo says darkly. “Are you sure, Killua? Why don’t you ask your brother what _he_ thinks?”

But Illumi isn’t listening. He’s concentrating on getting rid of the screams. It keeps on getting louder and louder the more they’re talking. He traps his head in between his hands and nearly bends to his knees. He shuts his eyes, trying to catch his breath. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he just wants it to stop. He opens his eyes again and almost buckles over. The entire floor is shaking. He glances up, and his mother’s face is blurry.

“Illumi!” Killua calls sharply. _“Illumi!”_

Illumi turns to him, dazed. Killua’s eyes are summer blue, and when he stares back at his brother, Illumi feels like he’s been stricken. Even Killua’s eyes are whizzing in circles.

“Tell her,” he says desperately, a sob catching in his throat. “Tell her that you agree with me.”

“Yes, Illumi.” Kikyo laughs. “Why don’t you tell your brother?”

 _Tell him what?_ Illumi can think of a hundred sentences to say to Killua, but none are ever fit for this moment. He wants to tell his brother that his skin is cold like scales, but there’s nothing more that he wants than to be held by him. He wants to say that Killua’s hair is a halo. He wants to tell Killua that he still has the music box that was given to him, that sometimes, he could hear Killua’s own voice flying through the dotted circles like a different melody. But not when their mother is right in front of him.

_We don’t love out of love, I think. We love because there’s nothing else that’s worth doing._

“Tell him what?” Illumi finally answers. “I don’t understand.”

There is a thick beat of silence that Illumi almost doesn’t hear it. Kikyo’s smile widens like the contour of a shadow. Illumi blinks at the both of them, as if they’re expecting him to snap open and show them what secrets he is hiding. Killua has already swallowed the half of it, while Kikyo has the lock to his lips, and she never plans on giving it back to him.

 _I don’t belong in this family,_ he thinks, but it’s not something that he can say. He looks at Killua and searches for the courage to tell his mother the sentence he wants to pass overs. But every time he looks back at Kikyo, every single word drowns from his throat. No matter how much the fire burns, she will always flood them off.

“Tell her that you don’t deserve this!” Killua’s voice is pitched high with anger. “Tell her that she doesn’t own you. Illumi, _please_ , just tell her . . .” He breathes sharply. His eyebrows are furrowed together, and his lips are trembling. “Tell her that you don’t belong to _her_.”

Illumi knows what’s on the line. If he says what Killua wants to hear, then his brother will end up hurting in the process. Kikyo will thicken the securities and make sure that Killua doesn’t go outside. Killua will not meet his friend, and that’s not something that Illumi wants to happen. But if he says the sentence his mother wants to hear, Killua’s obvious look of betrayal will strike him like a whip. He isn’t sure which one is more worth it.

When he finally answers, there is the sound of the truth at the curve of his throat. He swallows it back down. “But then,” he whispers, “where else do we belong?”

“I don’t understand you,” Killua whispers, looking as if Illumi has slapped him. “You’re just like the rest of them. You’re nothing different from this family. You keep ignoring what’s placed right in front of you.” When Illumi doesn’t respond, he ducks his head and leaves the room, stomping his way up the staircase.

Kikyo watches him leave before she returns Illumi’s gaze. Her expression turns to steel. “You will watch over him,” she says slowly. “You are not allowed to do it again, Illumi. You will not exit this mansion until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

Illumi looks at the spot where Killua used to stand. Even before he left, he was already gone. Illumi closes his eyes. “Yes, mother.”

His feet are grounded to the floor. He can’t even move his knees. Whenever he takes a tiny breath, it lengthens, and it almost suffocates him. He clenches his fists, trying to block the cold and the voices strangling at his neck. The moment he finally opens his eyes, he realizes that he’s the only one left in the room. This doesn’t surprise him.

He has never existed at all.

 

~***~

 

There is nothing in this world worth staying for.

Chrollo doesn’t believe in reincarnation, and even if it exists, he doesn’t want to ever live here again – not as a different person, not even in a different form. He doesn’t want to go through another bus ride that lasts more than half an hour. He never wants to experience the rough boil of heat if he gets into a car accident. He doesn’t want to see his grade next semester, doesn’t want go into another class and leave, pretending that he actually learned something. He’s tired of seeing the stars wink at him from the sky, sending flash signals of fog over the city scrapers. He doesn’t want to keep thinking that he belongs there.

But where else can he possibly go?

“Boss?” Phinks calls, driving his attention back to the conversation at hand. “Does the plan sound good?”

Chrollo takes a moment before he finally realizes what Phinks is going on about. The next robbery is tonight. They’re going to rob the local gun shop downtown. Chrollo has been taking interest in firearms, although nothing that spectacular. He just wants a slick gun, something that will fit in the palm of his hand. He clenches his fist and almost imagines it. He leans forward on his elbows, fingers wrapped tightly together.  

He clears his throat. “Can you go by that again?”

Phinks doesn’t question it; he never does. “Kortopi can sneak us in while Pakunoda takes care of the security cameras . . .”

By the time Phinks is finished talking, Chrollo still hasn’t processed a single word that man has said. But he trusts Phinks judgment. After all, they have never been caught. He glances up, facing the others. Their faces are flooded with the bright gasp of the moon. But he can spot the only light that looks different. Hisoka’s eyelashes are still glinted with gold, and his eyes are even more flaxen under the dark. Hisoka catches his gaze and shows his familiar smirk.

“Do you just regret doing something,” he whispers, “before you’ve even done it?”

“I’m sorry. What was that, Boss?” Phinks asks, confused.

Chrollo only shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Your plan is perfect, Phinks. Is everyone ready?”

Everyone else nods in response. They begin to file out of the building, still as careless as ever. Their group is famous around these parts, because of the amount of stolen possessions that they’ve acquired. Add the fact that they have never been caught by the police, and they’re easily one of the best gang members in the city. But even with that reputation, Chrollo doesn’t believe that people fear them. They’re just afraid that they’ll get lost as well.

Chrollo stays at the back of the group as they proceed downstairs. Hisoka glances at him and slows his pace, until they’re walking side by side. When their shoulders brush, Chrollo’s heart is laid bare. But Hisoka only keeps walking, as if it’s also happening to him. This is what he likes the most about Hisoka: even when Chrollo is quiet, he immediately knows that something is wrong. There is a thread between them, and when Chrollo tugs at it slightly, Hisoka will take notice. And even before Chrollo sends out a signal, Hisoka is already there. He wonders if this is connective tissue.

“Why a gun store?” Hisoka inquires. “I thought you didn’t like weapons. You said that they were useless.”

“I wanted to try something new.” Chrollo shrugs. “Why? Are you scared?”

Hisoka looks at him. His eyes are staring right at his, and Chrollo almost jerks forward from the intensity of it. “I am,” he says softly. “But not for the reason that you think.” He glances at Chrollo one last time before jogging up to Machi.

Chrollo extends his arm to reach out for Hisoka, but he’s already too far away. He looks down at the sunken ground, and he reaches for it.

“Why,” he says softly, “are you making me stay?”

 

~***~

 

It isn’t that hard to rob a store. You just have to know what you’re looking for.

They’re already inside. The security cameras are switched off. The others are hustling on the front desk, getting whatever they can into their bags. As they’re off to do their own orders, Chrollo heads to the smaller section of the gun store, where the firearms are made with delicate handles. He scrolls through the aisles until he finds the one he wants. He takes in the rusty smell of the guns through his nose. He can even taste the texture of the gunpowder, and the cold numb marble of the silver bullet. It tastes like dirt. It tastes like death.

He grabs a gun from the counter, testing it in his palm. It’s too heavy, and it’s the color of black blood. He returns it on the table. He continues to do this until he finds the one he’s most comfortable with. But all of the guns are as hard as steel, and when Chrollo touches it, it’s colder than his teeth. He doesn’t want that. He wants something warm and cozy. He wants it to be the gun he can sleep with.

He walks father down the aisle, but he stops when a gun quickly slides over against the wall. Chrollo stops for a moment, and he peeks in between the aisles to check whether someone has seen him. But there is nobody there. He retrieves the gun – a .44 Magnum. Its handle is made of thick leather. The barrel is cocked with fleshed gold. He checks the loader and finds it full of silver bullets, as clear as glass. He drops them to his hand and places the cold material against his mouth.

But that isn’t what’s catching his attention. As he flips the gun over, he can feel the warmth tremble in his hand. It’s snug tightly against his skin.

“I’m not happy,” he says, closing his eyes. When he presses the tip against his cheek, it has the fleeting heat of Hisoka’s lips.

 

~***~

 

Not every canvas has to be perfect. Sometimes, the painting can be absolutely messy and disheveled – yet full of life and complexity that people are caught off guard. Sometimes, the painting can be as simple as a dandelion, with its petals cut off into shards, until the one holding it is pricked with sharp tips. Art isn’t beautiful, Hisoka thinks. Art isn’t supposed to make people see aesthetics. Art is supposed to make his heart feel like tumbleweeds and beaches. It’s supposed to make his knees turn into dust. It’s supposed to make people’s rotting hearts combust.

Machi appears in front of him, her hair the color of pink embers, her skin as smooth as ivory. “Hot,” he remarks, the smirk playing on the corner of his mouth. “You should dress like that more often.”

Machi narrows her eyes and crosses her arms. She’s wearing a thin blue tank top with navy blue shorts. “And you,” she replies, her cheeks turning pink, “should keep your compliments to yourself, because it’s definitely not working.”

Hisoka only laughs. “Of course it’s not. That’s why you’re blushing.” Before she can protest, he swivels to the wall.

It’s decorated with paint balloons. But the paint color inside each bubble is different from the outer section, so that even when they hit a blue one, the color may burst into green, instead. This is what Hisoka does when he’s starting to lose inspiration. Sketches can only take him so far, and he’s tired of seeing black and white. This time, he wants to trample his eyes with bright colors until the only palette he sees, is the one he can make perfectly.

Machi stands beside him. “So, how do we do this?”

Hisoka shrugs. “We just hit whatever we can.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “But what if we _don’t_ hit anything?”

He smiles slowly. “Why don’t I make it easier, then? Imagine that the balloon is me, so that when you throw that dart, you won’t miss.”

“You know what,” she muses. “That’s actually a pretty good idea.”

Hisoka fiddles with the dart in his hand, and then he positions himself ten feet away from the wall. He places the dart in between his two fingers and tosses it against the balloon, making it pop. The green paint splatters against the wall like a gunshot. “Next, I’m imagining . . .” Hisoka’s eyes brighten immensely. “Phinks.”

When he curls his wrist and flings the dart toward the balloon right in the middle, the balloon quickly cracks open like a wound, coiling with blue paint. “See?” He turns to Machi. “It’s effective.”

Machi rolls her eyes, but she’s already laughing. “Are you always this much of a showoff?”

“When I’m good at something? Hell, yeah.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Machi sighs. She steps back a foot and readies herself. She positions her arm back and finally throws the dart in the wall’s direction. The tip hangs loosely against the wooden divider, but it’s too far off its mark. “Okay. That was awful.” She fiddles with another dart and tries again, but it only grazes the balloon, and it lies flat on the floor.

Hisoka blinks at her in disbelief. “You’re surprisingly awful at this. Don’t they teach shooting ranges in crime investigations?”

“That’s for the police,” Machi corrects. “I’m going to be a private investigator. I’m pretty sure that there’s a difference.”

Hisoka brushes the tip of the dart with his thumb, coming dangerously close to pricking it. “Except that you will work for the same client – the government.” He throws his elbow back and squints at the one of the targets. There are two darts in his hand. He wonders if he can also hit two targets at once. He can feel Machi watching him, her blue eyes as fierce as a flame. He plays with his collar when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down his chin. The room suddenly feels too hard to breathe in.

“I’m not going to work for the government,” she answers. “I hate lawyers.”

Hisoka throws his elbow backward and hurls both the darts at the wall. The first one hits the balloon right at the center, forcing it open. The other flies like a draft paper airplane and falls flat on the ground. He turns to Machi. “Come here. I’ll teach you how to do it.”

Machi hesitantly walks over. “You’re not going to do anything, are you?”

Hisoka raises an eyebrow in question. “Do you expect me to hit your eye or something?”

“That wasn’t what I meant, dumbass.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t do anything that I might hit you for.”

Hisoka chuckles. “Not counting on it.”

She slowly steps in front of him, and he swallows the thick bulb down his throat when he feels her back pressed against his chest. From this angle, he can see the thin strands of her hair curled at the bottom of her scalp. The back of her neck is sweating, and he watches the liquid disappear down the fabric of her shirt. She must have felt his eyes on her, because her skin turns into a glassy shade of pink.

“So,” he begins, carefully placing his fingers around her hand. “You hold it like this. Yeah. Move your thumb. Good.” Machi moves even closer to his chest. He wonders if she notices what she’s doing. “Now, twist your wrist like this.” When Machi makes the wrong move, Hisoka closes his fingers around her wrist. He does it for her, flickering her hand gently. He notices the trembling of her fingers, and he wonders whether she can feel the buckle of his knees. “Next, throw your elbow back slowly, or you’re going to hit me on the face.”

Machi laughs. “Like this?”

“Yeah. Now, throw it.”

Machi swiftly flings her arm toward the wall, and the dart zooms into the air. It stretches wide before perfectly hitting the balloon, making it erupt into a blue pasture against the wall. The booming sound is the only thing he hears for a moment before she shrieks, turning to face him. “I did it!” she exclaims, and then she swings her arms around him for a thick embrace.

This is unexpected, because 1.) Machi hates it when they make contact; 2.) She never initiates a hug; 3.) Their bodies are as snug as sheets; and 4.) He can feel the rough pounding of her heart against his, as if the branches are trying to reach out until they’re finally touching.

But before anything else can happen, Hisoka breaks away. He steps backward, his entire body rocketed. He covers his face with the back of his hand, hoping that she can’t see the blemish of pink on the side of his neck, hoping that she doesn’t notice what he felt. But her eyes are burning into him, the color of blue heat.

The silence between them is as thick as pine trees. When she finally clears her throat and concentrates on the wall in front of them, he does the same. After all, why think about something that never happened?

 

~***~

 

Killua knows that his brother will find him eventually. But while he’s still alone, he’ll grieve.

He just doesn’t understand how Illumi can possibly ignore what’s right in front of him. Their mother is a wacko and a bitch. She doesn’t know one thing about parenting that’s actually worth all of this shit. But Illumi is still as calm as ever. Like their father, he ignores Kikyo’s control over them. They’re like puppets with strings right up their assess – and Killua will not be one of them.

The only other person he respects and loves in this family is Alluka, but the more she gets older, the more fucked up her situation is. She’s starting to act different. Sometimes, she says that she has a different name, so Killua shouldn’t call her Alluka, anymore, but Nanika. When Killua informed Silva of this discovery, his father only pushed away his fear. So, Killua searched it up on Google to check. He’s been taking mental health quizzes, pretending to be Alluka herself. Turns out, she has MPD – or Multiple Personality Disorder.

In other words, it means that there are other people in that one body. Only problem is that Killua doesn’t know what to do with it. He highly doubts that something like that can be cured, so he just has to stick around and protect Alluka from their family. He lowers his head, tears prickling the back of his eyes. He’s already starting to lose his sister. Will he lose his brother, too? Or is Illumi already gone, and Killua just never knew?

He hears a knock on the door, and Illumi steps into the chamber. Killua is currently inside the attic, where there is a bright space of glass illuminating the moon outside. The light is spilling on the wooden floors like palms. Illumi sits beside him, and Killua can hear the nervous beating of his heart. They’re silent for a few minutes, letting their presence spread across the room until it’s a full wing, and they’re the angels sharing the same body.

Finally, Killua speaks. “I’m sorry that I snapped at you. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Illumi nods. “I understand.”

Killua feels another wave of anger boil inside him. He swerves to Illumi, his chest pounding furiously. “You _understand_ ,” he repeats, gritting the words out. “But you don’t do anything about it. Why is that?”

Illumi doesn’t respond. And Killua doesn’t expect him to. This is what he knows about Illumi – when he is angry, he doesn’t show it. His mouth will twitch, but the words will be flushed down his throat. In fact, Killua has never seen his brother furious before, which only means that Illumi has never cared much about anything that may send him over the edge. Illumi’s smile is a prized treasure. It’s the size of two pennies. He rarely shows it.

But this is what he knows for sure: Illumi loves him so deeply that he doesn’t care if this is a sin.

Illumi turns to Killua. “I only want what’s best for you, Killua. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Killua scoffs. “There’s no _best_ in this family. It’s all about who has it worse. And our _mother_ doesn’t care about our well-being.” He captures Illumi’s gaze. “I know you want to fight back,” he says softly. “Why aren’t you?”

A hand is laid on Killua’s cheek. He leans into it.

“Because,” Illumi says, “my freedom isn’t worth it if you’re caught in the process.”

At that response, Killua closes his eyes as the tears begin to scratch at his eyelids. He lets a sob catch in his throat. Slowly, Illumi wraps an arm around him, pulling Killua closer to his heat. But when they touch, their cold bodies feel like glaciers meeting. Illumi’s fingers are as cold as rain. Killua’s skin isn’t any better.

Maybe this is the similarity between them as brothers: no matter how much they try to stay warm, they will still be as cold as the fragments of weather.

“What can I do to make you happy, Killua?” Illumi whispers.

The word is snatched from his lips to Killua’s palms. _Happy_. The only time he’s happy is when Gon is beside him. Gon’s hands are like mittens. His eyes are mixed gold. The skin of his palm is rough, but when Killua touches it, that one glimpse of warmth is enough.

He raises his head from Illumi’s cold shoulder and breaks away from his brother. “I’m not happy here,” he says tightly. _“I’m not happy.”_

Killua takes one final look at Illumi before he jumps to his feet. He exits the room, his heart wailing.

 

~***~

 

_He’s not happy. He’s not happy. He’s not happy._

Those words are repeating loudly in the back of his head. He’s now in the hallway, trying to get a hold of himself. His entire body is staggering past the floors. But he can’t see anything besides the blurry darkness of the moon. His fingers grasp at the nearby cabinets as he tries to breathe. But his whole chest is the size of a lamp, and it’s burning every time he thinks of Killua.

“He’s not happy,” he murmurs. “He’s not happy here.”

He is staring at his reflection at the windows. His eyes are sunken and blue. His pupils have dilated. He doesn’t know who he’s looking at. He doesn’t recognize anything, but the obscure irises. Soon enough, the picture starts to get unclear again. His head is whirring like a swarm of bumblebees. When he takes a step, he buckles over. He clasps at the edge of the dresser. He can’t fall now. He still has something he needs to find.

“He’s not happy,” he repeats.

Why isn’t Killua happy? Did Illumi do something wrong? Was it because they got caught? Should he apologize for his mistake? Should he tell mother to let Killua out to play? Does Killua want to play? Will mother allow him? The questions are planted on his forehead, but somehow, he still can’t bear to say it. He knows, either way, that no one will listen.

He shuts his eyes tight until the misshaped figures of the mansion are in tact. But when he looks back at his reflection, it’s still the same bleary face, with the same gaping mouth, the same panting breath. What is he missing here? What should he do? Should he tell Killua to run away for good? He said that he doesn’t want to be here. But how can Killua ever get away?

Will Killua take Illumi with him? Or will he finally forget his brother and leave?

Just as he’s at the door to his father’s study, he bends forward and hurls. The smell is wafting through his nose. It’s acidic. It looks like it’s burning the carpet. He reminds himself to clean it afterwards.

Illumi pushes the door open, surprised to find it empty. His father usually falls asleep at the table. He looks at the clock. It’s almost midnight, which means that everyone else is asleep, which means that he’s the only one who’s awake here. He drags himself to the secret cabinet behind the bookshelves. He presses his shoulder against the bookshelf and folds it away. Some of the books stumble down. Illumi watches it fall before he opens the cabinet with the nearby key.

When the lock breaks free, he stares at the revolver, sitting squarely on the platform. There is a pack of silver bullets beside it. Illumi snatches the gun and the packet before rearranging the things back into place. His father will never notice a thing. It’s been a long time since he’s actually touched this. Illumi places it on the table, inspecting its hinges.

He inserts the bullets inside the loader and cocks it open.

“He’s not happy,” he repeats, closing his eyes. When he brings the barrel of the gun to his cheek, he can feel the cool fracture of Killua’s lips.

 

~***~

 

It has only taken them half an hour before they have finally given up on hitting the bull’s eye. Now, their bodies are drenched with paint. Machi’s hair is tied into a bun, but it’s already coated with blue and green. Her skin is a vibrant shade of yellow. Hisoka doesn’t look much better. His hair is sticking out in odd directions, and he can still feel Machi’s hair combed through the strands. His clothes are ruined. They stick tightly to his skin. When he tries to wipe the slab on his neck, it only leaves another streak.

He laughs under his breath. “We look ridiculous, don’t we?”

Machi smiles, nodding in agreement. “You look like more of an idiot, though.”

“Wow,” he huffs. “Thanks for that. You have to admit that I still look handsome, though.”

“As if,” Machi scoffs. “You should stop feeding your ego when no one does it for you. It’s pathetic, you know?”

Hisoka gives her a look before he softly mashes his hand against her face, dragging his fingers down to leave a larger mark of paint. “And _you_ should stop denying that I’m attractive.”

“There you go again,” Machi sings. “Just keep on feeding your – ”

Before she can say anything more, Hisoka pushes her gently on the ground, using his hand as cushion for her head. The other sneaks on her waist, his fingers wriggling against her. She squeals out in surprise, and she bursts out in uncontrollable laughter. Tears start to round on the corners of her eyes.

“Stop tickling me, you asshole!”

“I’m having my revenge,” Hisoka says, laughing. Machi’s hand crawls to cover his own, trying to pry his away from her waist. He catches a glimpse of her elongated neck, at the rise of her collarbones, the bob of her throat. He swallows thickly, and then he lets Machi draw his hand away from her. But he quickly vines their fingers together like roots, biting his lip when he sees the way their fingers are snugly fit against each other. Paint sticks at the core of their palms.

Machi looks at their tangled fingers, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Oh,” he exclaims. “I got it.”

Hisoka reaches out for the sketchbook he has on the stool. He makes sure that when he stretches, he doesn’t let go. He returns to seat in front of Machi, flipping to a clean page. He caps open his pen and scrawls swiftly across the blank space.

“What are you drawing?” Machi questions. She tries to peek under his head. “Why are you not letting go of my hand?”

“Because,” he answers, “I’m _drawing_ our hands.”

The side of his palm brushes against the page, and it leaves a light cloud. He plays with the details of Machi’s hands, giving it more lines and textures than necessary. When he adds his own, he pretends that they’re tighter, as if the idea of the other one letting go will make his or her partner fade away. His pencil carelessly brushes the thin lines of Machi’s knuckles, the sides of her palms, the veins kissing her wrists. He brings their hands closer for further inspection, but what he’s really doing is memorizing the feel of it before she lets go.

“You have to stop being so talented,” she whispers. “Although, that’s not what I meant.”

Hisoka chuckles. “I know. But what else am I going to be good at?”

Machi doesn’t answer, but the sentence is clear in his head.

When he’s done with the sketch, he folds the notebook back into place. He unconsciously tightens his grip on Machi’s hand, but he immediately draws it back, as if he’s been electrified. Machi blinks at him in surprise, and when she looks down, it’s like she has seen a ghost. But even Hisoka can see it, too – the red string that’s binding them, unable to come loose.

Hisoka ducks his head and curls his hand into a fist. His heart is maddeningly beating as he realizes that it’s getting harder and harder to resist.

 

~***~

 

The mansion rumbles with a gunshot noise. There is the sound of crying, a wail so childlike that the ghosts behind the walls stop talking. Five minutes later, a scream resonates across the building. The moon curls away from the pain, and the windows lock together to keep the noise in. No one wants to hear that kind of agony.

 

~***~

 

Later that night in the Zoldyck household, Kikyo wakes up to the sound of a gunshot. Her instinct takes over. She hurries to the source of the noise, but it takes her a moment to locate it. Five minutes later, she smells a toxic scent. She frowns at the sight of vomit on the carpet. She follows the trail as it leads her to her husband’s study.

When she opens the door, she screams.

On the floor, her son is crying, while the other is bleeding profusely. It takes her a moment before she gathers enough wits to call the police.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like this! I LOVE reading your comments, so review if you can. :)


	23. Skinny Love

Chapter Twenty-Three

 

December 2013

 

 

The entire room still smells like smoke. His full packet rests on the nightstand.

When Hisoka wakes up in the middle of the night, the sheets are coated in fog and ice. The room is wafting the howl of the moon against the shaking windows. The voices beneath the walls are ringing against the shell of his ears like a telephone line. When he draws the curtains away to access more air, the voices only get stronger. He closes his eyes, and the sound heaves against the walls. Hisoka can hear the rolls of moans blocking the walls like granite waves, the tapping of the headboard, the mangle of sheets, and two bodies slipping under the covers to each other’s heat.

Even when he ducks under the pillows, the sound still frays against his eardrums. It slips into the crevice of his chest. He wonders what it’s looking for, when everything else is already lost.

He’s staring the blank space of the ceiling. His arms are quivering from the cold, but there is a heavy trickle of sweat against the back of his shoulders. His bones are aching, pounding so furiously that he has to close them into tight fists. There are rigid spaces in between his fingers, where someone else’s hands should have been. His heart is as dry as an old crate.

This is where the nightmares usually start – the room is as cold as the jot of a glacier. The sheets are warm, and they make his skin sweat despite the chilly atmosphere. He will smell the scent of cigarette smoke under his nostrils, until it curls down his lungs, as if he’s been the one smoking. He will hear the pitter patter of the first drop of snow. And when he wakes up, the voices won’t stop. He will still remember the headlights on his forehead, the warning sign bleached across his eyelids, and the scent of someone else foiling around his bones.

He will wake up, feeling alone.

Hisoka finally pulls himself out of the bed, shoving the covers away from him. He unbuttons his shirt and throws them in the hamper. As soon as he walks into the balcony, his chest bare, the sun slowly rises up to greet him. The rays are looping over the city scrapers. He returns to his room to retrieve the pack of cigarettes and his lighter. Even before he smokes, the smell lingers.

He traps the cigarette in between his teeth and inhales. He closes his eyes as he throws his head back. He rubs his fingers together, feeling the familiar brush of dry paint against his skin. Last night, Hisoka has tried drawing him again, but his three attempts only get shortened. Each time, he was disappointed. His fingers have been sewn so close together that they couldn’t bear to be apart, as if the loose ends between them are connected like bridges. The last attempt forced him to drive the canvas across the room.

His fingers are still coated with black paint, the purple streaks blending together under his fingernails. He brings them to his lips, wondering if misery has a taste. He should know; he can feel it squeezing its way in between his teeth, where his throat is ready to consume it.

Slowly, he puts the end of the cigarette near the smooth curve of his arm. But before he can feel the ash pooling against his skin, the door bursts open, letting Machi inside. Hisoka finds himself staring into the blue panels of her eyes, and he unconsciously lets go of the cigarette. Machi watches it slip down the vents and into the whirring machine of the conditioner, ripping it to shreds. She carefully walks toward him. Hisoka’s heart starts writhing again. But when he closes his eyes, he’s being brought to last night. He remembers the clear vacancy of the painting – the lack of eyes at the sockets, replaced by the grave of fog, instead.  

Even when he’s not smoking, Hisoka can still smell him and the bitterness of his presence.

Machi walks forward and grabs his arm, turning it over. Stamped in angry, black letters is a sentence that looks so much like ash: _You wanted the sun, but I wasn’t enough._

Before Machi can even say anything, his vision floods with black, and his body falls to the ground.

 

~***~

 

 

Machi should have known that this would happen, but maybe she has been hoping that it wouldn’t.

Hisoka is now lying against the chair. His eyes are heavily lidded with sleep. Machi recalls to last night, where she heard the sound of banging against the walls. At first, she thought it was a ghost. It always happened during Decembers, and even Hisoka could hear the voices are high strung as screams. But when she tried knocking on the door of Hisoka’s apartment to check, she immediately knew what it was. She returned to bed, trying to block the sound of his heart wailing against the cement. It took her three more hours before she could sleep again.

Machi scrubs his paint-streaked face with soap, careful not to wake him up. Hisoka usually never faints in the middle of a silent conversation; he never faints, period. But she knows that this month is an exception, and by next year, he will act like the most annoying person on the planet. For now, she’ll have to accept that he’s someone else, someone different – someone who finally shows his pain.

Because this is not a person that she can fully recognize. This is someone who is so far off the bridge that there is no other way to reach for him. This is a man who can’t scrub misery off his skin, no matter how much water he drowns in. This is someone Machi has to try to pull back, even though her fingers are too weak. This is a person who flawlessly sinks. This is the Hisoka Machi is always losing.

She runs warm water on a cloth and gently erases the paint on the side of his neck. Once she’s finished, she dabs it on his chest, making him stay warm. She rinses his hair on the sink, letting her fingers stroke his scalp. Even the soft curve of his head is warm and heated, as if she’s sinking deep into an ocean trench.

She’s washing the shampoo off his chair just when Hisoka stirs. He slowly glances up at Machi, blinking. He looks around the pink tiles of the bathroom. He groans softly, placing two fingers on his temple.

“I fainted again, didn’t I?”

Machi closes the faucet and hands him a towel. Hisoka accepts it, drying his face. His red strands stick close to his forehead. Machi can see the heavy iron underneath his eyelids, and she wonders what someone has to feel to look like he’s actually dying. She reaches out to touch him, but before her fingers can brush against his lips, she makes a grab for the towel, instead. She bends in front of him until they’re at eye level, and she wipes his face.

“It’s fine,” Hisoka says, seizing her wrist. “I don’t want to bother you with this.”

Machi shakes him off. “Oh, so now that you’re needing it, you won’t let me take care of you?”

Instead of fighting her off, Hisoka lets a smile slip on his lips. “You’re always so hardheaded. Don’t poke my eyeballs out.”

“I wasn’t even _thinking_ about it.”

Hisoka chuckles, and Machi lets the sound hit deep on her throat. She dries off his chest, next. She can feel the steady rhythm of his heart underneath her palms, and she counts the number of beats before it momentarily stops. Hisoka is watching her intensely, his golden eyes nearly burning the plane of her forehead.

“Stop staring at me.”

“I can’t help that you’re beautiful.”

At that, Machi’s head snaps up in surprise. The words are wrapped tightly in a ribbon, made especially for her to unravel. She reminds herself that this is a joke; with Hisoka, it always is. But when she looks at him, his face is completely serious, his eyes are tired and vacant, and she can still see the word stamped over his lips like a promise. She knows that it’s something he breaks too easily.

“What the fuck are you even saying?”

“Nothing.” Hisoka rubs his eyes. “Nothing. I’m just tired, is all.”

She ignores the pang reaching into the core of her heart. “You went overboard last night.”

Hisoka lifts a delicate brow. “You saw me?”

“I _heard_ you,” she corrects. “I thought you were going to wake up the whole apartment building.”

“Yeah, and you’d have to kill me for it.” Hisoka grins.

Machi stares at him, at the perfect towers of his teeth, where she can practically see the black Sharpie inked across the front row. _No_ , she thinks, before she can stop herself, _you’re doing that all on your own._

 

~***~

 

“It’s just the first week,” Phinks groans, “and there’s already this much snow.”

“News anchor said there was going to be a storm.”

Feitan is beside him, resting his elbow against the knob of the shovel. Phinks heaves the heap of snow behind his shoulder as another flicker of sweat drips down his forehead. He glances at Feitan and scowls. They both agreed this morning that they’d clear the snow out, so that when the day arrives, they won’t have to tackle the same problem. But Feitan’s nose is as red as a cherry, and he looks like he’s about to waver down on the ground.

“You should have told me that you were sick,” Phinks accuses. “I wouldn’t have dragged you here.”

“Yeah,” Feitan agrees tiredly. “And then, everyone else will think that you’re crazy.”

The reason why they’re doing this together is because no one will have to assume that the other should belong to a mental ward. No one does this kind of thing like a routine, and yet, it feels like it. Phinks thinks of this as a habit – just for Christmas. He pulls out his gloves from his hands and tosses them to Feitan’s pink fingers. “There,” he says, blushing slightly. “So, you won’t have to get a fever.”

Feitan rolls his eyes. “I’m just cold, dumbass.” But he slips on the mittens, anyway, relishing in the warmth Phinks has already given to the fabric. He shivers under his jacket as Phinks continues to rake the snow away.

“How long do you think this will take?” Phinks asks.

“Longer if you keep talking.”

“Well, if you’ll actually _help_ . . .”

Feitan smirks, and he wiggles his warm fingers. “I’m sick, remember?”

Phinks doesn’t bother to reply, because by now, he’s already keen on getting the task finished. After half an hour more, Phinks has finally cleared the snow. And they find themselves staring at the gray slab of a gravestone.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka takes one look at the coffee mug, and he immediately knows that he’s not going to make it.

Right now, he’s sitting inside the café Kikyo has planned to meet. His knees are jiggling up and down, and the sockets connecting them are nearly sticking out like a canyon. His chest feels like it’s been inhabited by wasps, because he can’t seem to stop it from buzzing. He can smell the bitter scent of coffee diving under the holes of his nose. He slips his hand into the holder of the mug to keep it warm. Hisoka has been waiting here for nearly half an hour now, deciding to wait for Kikyo earlier than expected.

Or more like, Machi forced him to get out of his apartment. She practically dragged him here because he wouldn’t agree to it. Meeting at a coffee shop is enough. But knowing that he’s waiting for someone to lash at him with her teeth, letting the sharp twiddles of her spine scratch his cheek – it’s like setting up his own trap, even though he knows what he’ll get on the other side.

Hisoka watches the door open, but Kikyo Zoldyck still doesn’t appear in front of him. Slowly, he lifts the coffee mug to his lips to take a sip. The coffee is the dressing of brown and black, wriggling its way past the heated stenches of smoke. He lets the lip brush against his mouth before the coffee reaches in between his teeth. He scowls as soon the coffee brushes the line of his tongue, and he spits it back into the mug. If Machi were here, she would look at him in disgust, but there’s no way that he’s going to drink _that_. It still feels like he’s drinking from a canal.

He sends a desperate text to Machi: _please come here before I die._

Machi texts back: _you’re just a weak dick who can’t drink coffee._

Hisoka can’t help but laugh. He types in: _it tastes like urine, and you know it._

Before he can check his phone for another message, Kikyo Zoldyck swings the door open. She’s wrapped in a thick gray coat, and her hair is tied neatly into a bun. Looking at her in her pencil skirt and black heels, Hisoka feels like he’s looking at another version of Illumi – someone who has a pole stuck inside her ass, someone whose face is stretched so tight that Hisoka can see the barbed lines of her face, someone he can’t imagine Illumi to be without cracking himself in the process.

Kikyo’s eyes search for him, and she finally settles down on the other side of the table. She sits with her back straight – an aspect of Illumi that Hisoka recognizes. She clasps her fingers at the center of the table, occupying more space with her arms, as if she’s marking her territory before he can even think of overlapping it.

As soon as Kikyo opens her mouth, Hisoka imagines a shark in front of him, baring its teeth before she decides to eat him whole. He’s not sure if she’ll find him too appetizing.

“Good morning, Hisoka,” she greets. “It’s nice to meet you again.”

He knows that’s a lie. When he went to the Zoldycks for the dinner, Kikyo couldn’t look at him without scowling. Her face has been permanently marked with disgust, like the very thought of him sitting in the same room is making her dinner plate as unappealing as raw meat. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Kikyo Zoldyck absolutely despises him.

“Good morning,” he answers, his voice cool and steady. “How are you today?”

Kikyo smiles. “I’m rather lovely. The weather is perfect, isn’t it?”

It’s not. It feels like Hisoka is surrounded by smoke and ice, where every single footstep is the sound of screaming ghosts under the sheets of his bed. His ears are still ringing like the bump of train tracks. If he listens close enough, he can hear the voice of smog curling the top shell of his ear. And even when he tries to scratch it off, it sticks to the end of his fingernails, replacing the vibrant color of paint.

“Yes.” Hisoka returns the forced smile, the effort nearly disabling him loose. “Perfect.”

Kikyo nods. “Well, I’m sure you’d like to get down to business. So, shall we?” She tightens her hold on her fingers as she lifts her head to meet Hisoka’s gaze. “What do you know about Illumi?”

That’s not the kind of question Hisoka has expected, and he’s sure that the surprise is evident. He predicted that her words would be more of the lines of: _What are you planning after you graduate? Will you still be with Illumi by then? Are you going to stay with him?_ _How long will it take to drive you away?_

But he knows that Illumi’s fingers stretch out like an ocean when he plays the piano. He knows that Illumi likes to bury himself under the lake of Hisoka’s sheets, as if he has made a home out of the fabric. He knows that Illumi’s bones are always quivering underneath the heat of his palms, like Hisoka’s skin is what causes him to burn. He knows that Illumi likes to look at the sun, because he can’t seem to take his eyes off of it. He knows that Illumi’s neck is easily bruised, that his elbows are as sharp as razors, and that his lips taste like the first knock of snow.

But when he matches Kikyo’s gaze, he finds his lips hunched tight. He stares at the puncture of Kikyo’s mouth when he feels something clipping at his back. He doesn’t bother to look at it; he knows fully well what he lacks.

“Well?” Kikyo presses. “You don’t have anything to offer in this conversation?”

Hisoka manages to keep his face perfectly blank. “You wanted to get to the point. I’m pretty sure that you wouldn’t care what I have to say because you’re already convinced that I’m lying.”

Kikyo’s dry smile returns. When Hisoka looks at it, he feels like he’s looking at the parched sand of a desert. This is one of the ways Illumi and his mother is different: while Kikyo’s lips are made of granite slabs, Illumi’s mouth is softer than beaches. When Hisoka kisses him, his entire body is being swallowed by the ocean.

“Since you seem to know Illumi so well,” Kikyo continues, as if his backlash never happened, “then I’m sure you know about his siblings.”

His heartbeat unpredictably speeds up like an engine, like it knows that it’s planning for a getaway before the explosion can happen. “Of course.” He hesitates. “Milluki and Kalluto.”

Kikyo’s smile is now the size of her fingers, where she’s willing to hammer everyone else around her. “Milluki and Kalluto. Are you sure that they’re the only ones in the family?” She leans closer, eyes widening. “Or perhaps, Illumi hasn’t told you everything?”

His face absolutely blanches into the color of his pale sheets. “What,” he says, voice strewn tight, “do you mean?”

He recalls the time Illumi has actually spoken to him, the times Illumi was the first to initiate a conversation. But he finds himself repeating the moments Illumi avoided his questions. Illumi never liked talking too much. At first, Hisoka concluded that it was because of his family’s way of living: they’re not allowed to speak if not given the permission.

But as he stares at the spot in between Kikyo’s fingers, where he can see a little bit of space, he wonders whether Illumi has ever felt so tightly compressed in Kikyo’s hands that the only thing he can do is suffocate. He wonders whether Illumi has felt his wings ripped from him, even before he could notice that his mother was the one doing it.

Hisoka asks himself whether his mother has been the one zipping his lips, so that when it finally decides to open, Hisoka will be the one jaded with the consequences.

Kikyo shuffles for her bag and presents to Hisoka a photograph. She slides it in front of him on the table. Hisoka stares at it, the golden hue of his eyes chalking. His heart is about to burst out in the crisp of ice, and he can feel it wobbling past the lines of his veins, where the rest of him is already freezing.

His hand quivers when he reaches for it.

There is a wild haired boy, his skin the color of peached sand. His eyes are magnetic blue. Even through the picture, Hisoka can see the sense of freedom marked on his pupils. Beside him, a younger Illumi has his hand curled around the boy’s shoulder. His eyes are banked skies, but even Hisoka can notice the difference – there is a light at the center of his pupils that is too hard to miss, and his mouth is agape, as if he’s counting the beats of the boy’s pulse.

That is a look Hisoka has never seen, because Illumi has never looked at him that way.

“That’s Killua,” Kikyo informs. “Illumi’s younger brother.” Her face contorts perfectly into the shallow pools of a grim reaper’s. “Has Illumi ever told you how much he loved Killua? Or was that also something he failed to mention?”

Hisoka swallows as he recognizes the boy in the picture. This is the one Hisoka has seen in the library, the one Illumi has been hiding. As he listens to Kikyo talk, he realizes that maybe this is why Illumi has never spoken about him – because Killua matters so much that not even words can forge the correct image; that Illumi’s love for him is deeper than the catacomb maze, and Illumi has already gotten lost before Hisoka can think to find him.

“What happened to him?” he asks, his breath hitching. “Where is he now?”

Kikyo feigns shock. “My, Hisoka. I thought you already knew.” But she smiles slowly, her grin the size of a comet trail. “Why don’t you ask _him_ , instead?”

Before he can give her an answer, she has already gathered her things, preparing to leave. She regards him with a cool glance. “It was nice talking to you, Hisoka,” she says. “Have a good day.” She turns on her heels and exits the café.

He watches her leave before he fumbles with the picture, and stares at it a moment longer. His thumb brushes the dark ink of Illumi’s eyes, where it’s directed right at his brother’s face. His fingers are convulsing, and his throat is dry like sandpaper. Hisoka’s heart is leaping out of the boundary of his chest, where his bones are making an army to prevent it from escaping.

He closes his eyes and tries to imagine Illumi looking at him the same way. But even when the image burns the back of his eyelids and scorches the front of his teeth, he knows that it will never happen. Because Illumi has only ever wanted something different. Just like everyone else.

Without warning, his vision turns into bleary silver, like the lightning static of a television screen. A staggering pain hits the back of his head. He buckles forward, unable to stop it. He swiftly brings his fingers to his temples to ease the hurting, but the pain follows the pathway to his heart, where it settles like a trap. He clutches at his shirt, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Even this tiny crevice smells like smoke.

It takes him a moment to realize that his teeth are bleeding. He buries his fingers in his hair, his face scrunching up in pain. “Oh, God,” he whimpers. “It’s happening again.”

Trembling, he pulls out his black Sharpie from his pocket and scrawls a sentence on the table. The letters are slashed with a furious sizzle of black ink: _Why the fuck do you keep on coming back to haunt me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends! I added six more chapters, so the ending will be on chapter 36, instead. Please READ THE DATES because they are very important in the fanfic. 
> 
> I love reading your reviews, so please comment if you want to say anything. Thank you. :)


	24. Please Don't Go

Chapter Twenty-Four

 

December 2013

 

 

Illumi is now stepping on the stiff staircase of Hisoka’s apartment. He’s carrying a plastic bag of paper, the sheets as white as snowflakes. He brings his collar farther up his neck to prevent the cold from settling in. He’s been walking for half an hour now, and when he ascends to the second floor, he can feel his knees buckling over the chill that has kissed the back of his bones. Even the curves of his feet have ridden his shoes with slush. His face is hot, and he’s sure that his cheeks are the color of plump tomatoes.

He wobbles, nearly losing his balance before he finally steadies himself upright.

He didn’t bother to ask for the car. He knows that Gotoh will still track him, anyway, all the way from the Zoldyck mansion to the outskirts of the city. But even when there’s a tracking devise attached to the fabric of his clothes, his mother still has radar, its range is as far as Illumi’s feet can take him. He glances at the peak of his backbones, as hollow as his own chest, and he wonders what it would feel like if he has wings, instead.

Illumi straightens his back and tries to erase the flush from his cheeks, even though he knows that when he reaches Hisoka, his skin will heat up again, as if the sun is right next to him. As he strides past the apartment room, one suddenly flies open like a boulder. Squeezed in between the doorframe is Machi, with the same wild pink hair and frosted eyes. She’s heaving a large garbage bag, the muscles of her arms bulging with pressure. Illumi almost wants to help her, but when her gaze settles on his, he immediately freezes over.

He carefully walks toward her, reaching the side of her door to avoid contact. His folding as he takes in the rimy glass of her stare. _This,_ he thinks, _is someone Hisoka respects._ But even with that thought in mind, he can’t help but think if Hisoka’s feelings go beyond that; if Hisoka is only stringing those words together like a beaded necklace, so that when Illumi tugs just the slightest bit, everything will fall from place and reveal every little secret.

The sudden voice catches him off guard. This voice is the first thing Hisoka hears in the morning; this is the sound Illumi can never get rid of in his own head, because it’s always blocking the pathway to Hisoka’s hummingbird chest.

“If you’re here for Hisoka,” Machi says, her tone breezing past the knobs of his bones, “which you obviously are, I just want to give you a warning.” She steps closer, leaving the garbage bag on the floor. On instinct, Illumi falls back. “Don’t,” she continues, her words folded like paper planes; any moment now, and it fill fly in the opposite direction, “do anything to antagonize him. All right? He’s been in a pretty lousy mood lately, but fuck, you make him happy so whatever, I guess. Just . . .” she hesitates for a moment. The frigid strokes of her pupils are replaced with fragile care. “Just be careful around him.”

Without further explanation, Machi carries the garbage bag, her fingers closed tightly around the top. She kicks the door behind her and begins for the stairs. Illumi watches her go before he finally walks up to Hisoka’s door. He doesn’t understand what Machi means, because whenever Hisoka is with him, a smile is always adorned on the man’s face. The atmosphere is as light as frosting. And Hisoka feels like the kiss of fireplace; when Illumi fits himself in Hisoka’s chest, his entire being is safe.

Illumi hesitantly knocks on the door, trying not to bolt away. But before he can even take a step back, Hisoka has already swung it open. The same easy smile is gracing his lips like a silver lining. He leans his arm against the doorframe, preventing Illumi to going inside. Illumi wants to push Hisoka back, but the moment his hand is flat on Hisoka’s chest, his fingers curl tightly on the fabric, like even Hisoka’s clothes belong to the man’s skin.

Hisoka doesn’t budge from his position. In fact, the grin on his face widens like a stream.

“What is it?” Illumi questions, guarded.

“Look up.”

Illumi glances at the stem of grapes dangling at the top of his head. Hisoka’s fingers are loosely holding on to it. “What . . . do you want me to do?” He tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed. “Do you want me to eat it?”

Hisoka blinks at him, his face the evident color of disbelief. He waves the grapes, and it brushes with Illumi’s forehead. “I couldn’t find a mistletoe,” Hisoka explains. “So, I replaced it with grapes, see? You know what happens when two people are under a mistletoe, right?”

Illumi has heard of the tradition, although he’s never tried it before. He doesn’t think anyone would want to be under the same bleeding pool of ring, because his lips have never been made for it. “But that’s a grape,” Illumi states. “Not a mistletoe.”

Hisoka laughs, bending over slightly to grasp his stomach. “Oh, _man_ ,” he breathes. “I forgot how dense you are when it comes to this, sometimes. So, how about we _pretend_ that it’s a mistletoe?”

Illumi stares at him, hoping the man is not joking. But even with the playful tone attached to Hisoka’s voice, the meaning of his words is a distress in the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes and leans forward. He can feel Hisoka bridging the gap between them, and their lips meet in the middle of the heated warzone. The soldiers in his bones absolutely collapse, and even his fingertips are out of bullets. So, when Hisoka encloses his arms around Illumi like a wire, he holds on to the branch of Hisoka’s bones.

 _This_ , he thinks, _is what it feels like to never want to let go._

But when Illumi brushes backward to take a breath, this is the first time he’s noticed the bleached strobe of Hisoka’s pupils, as if he’s never even been there.

 

~***~

 

There is a part of him that doesn’t want Illumi to be here. But there’s a large gap between the bridges, saying that all he really wants is for Illumi to be sitting closer to him. And that’s not a feeling that he can easily replace, not when Hisoka can feel the man’s chill like a music track around his throat, and when Illumi isn’t there, Hisoka can trace the remnants of smoke.

His fingers loop into the sockets of the scissors, and he tries to cut the paper with tiny triangles. He asked Illumi to bring a bunch because he wanted to try making paper snowflakes. The only problem is that the more he hears the folds of Illumi’s heartbeat against his ears, the harder it gets to concentrate. His fingers almost quiver when the beating is a thrumming of moon howls against the shape of his bones. His breath gets stuck in his throat when Illumi unconsciously shifts, his perfect almond eyes trained on the masterpiece in front of him.

As soon as Hisoka absentmindedly digs the scissors into the paper again, the blades scrape a portion of his skin. He jolts up in surprise, but his face remains absolutely calm. He stares at the blood trickling down the lines of his finger, kissing the pool of his palms until it looks like paint. It takes him a moment longer before he can feel the pain hitting the base of his finger, and by then, Illumi has already rushed to his side. Immediately, Hisoka budges away like a natural magnet, but this time, he’d rather twist away than connect.

Illumi only grasps Hisoka’s fingers in his own hands, as if Hisoka’s sudden repel hasn’t taken effect.

“Does it hurt?” Illumi asks, rubbing the blood away with his handkerchief. “Shall we wash it off?”

Hisoka watches the blood smear against Illumi’s skin like a passed on tattoo. He thinks of how Illumi has been attached securely to Hisoka’s hipbones, so that when the man lurches forward, Hisoka will take the fall. Illumi presses the handkerchief around Hisoka’s finger to stop the bleeding, but when the liquid only stains the fabric further, he leans closer. He dips his head and inserts a tiny portion of Hisoka’s fingertip into his mouth.

Hisoka shivers, his entire skin melting off like lashed veins on the lake of Illumi’s lips. His breathing falters in the dome of his chest, where his lungs suddenly stop working. Illumi continues to lick the blood off. Hisoka almost pushes him away, just so he can finally catch his breath again. But his bones stay frozen together like an icicle. Whatever Illumi has brought to this room has made Hisoka feel cold.

Finally, Hisoka clasps a hand over Illumi’s shoulder and pushes him back. “What are you doing?” he questions, his throat working.

Illumi looks at him as if he is crazy. Sometimes, Hisoka thinks that he is, because no matter how hard he tries to duck underneath the covers of his bed, he can still hear the silent sound of gunshots in the span of his chest.

“I’m trying to heal you,” Illumi answers. “Licking it off will do the trick.”

 _You can’t heal something like this_ , Hisoka thinks, but he shoves the thought in the farthest portion of his brainstem, where he’s sure Illumi won’t hear. He shakes his head, instead. “I’m fine. Just a cut, see?”

“Okay,” Illumi says, but he still doesn’t let go. His fingers coil around Hisoka’s wrist like a snake that has gotten hold of his victim. Hisoka feels his heart wrenching, a bruise swelling in the core of his chest until he finds it hard to even think about what he’s doing. His mind goes blank when he feels Illumi’s breath hit the bone of his cheek, and he slowly leans in to close the gap between them.

Once their lips have settled like two strangers under the same sheets, his stomach knots into a rope, and the weaved fabric snakes its way past his throat. Illumi tastes like everything Hisoka likes – he’s a sweet and bitter mixture of scar tissues. As soon as Illumi widens his mouth, Hisoka’s teeth feel like sand dunes. He doesn’t realize that he’s swallowed something different until the air starts to slowly suffocate him.

There is a secret thick as a fist in between Illumi’s teeth – and Hisoka is the only one who’s wanted to swallow it.

Hisoka finds himself pulling away, only to stare at the flat of Illumi’s lap, where a photograph of a whiskey textured boy is laid.

Illumi blinks at it, and his trembling fingers snatches the picture before Hisoka can get it himself. “Where . . .” Illumi shakes his head, his voice thick. “Where did you get this?”

Hisoka looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. The ghost settles comfortably on the blue-veined pages of his eyelids. He can feel Illumi inching away from him, like an ocean tide that is trying too hard not to return to the ocean.

And he thinks that maybe the scaling gap between them is something he has always expected.

 

~***~

 

Ghosts always seem to follow him, Illumi thinks, because they know exactly where he’s hiding. He’s been burying himself in the graves of Hisoka’s bones, where he was so sure that he wouldn’t get lost. Because every time he ceases to breathe underneath the sultry dirt, Hisoka pulls him back up like a safeguard. But now, there is a frank deck of cards in between them, and each time Illumi flips one over, he finds himself looking directly at the ugly fissure of his secret.

The photograph flutters like a strewn leaf on the curls of his lap. His fingers are trembling when he finally gathers the courage to take it back. He looks at Hisoka, with the same quivering question stuck in the loose hinges of his teeth. When he runs a tongue over it, he tastes the stale and ashen texture of it – and he wonders whether Hisoka tastes any different from this.

He leaps to his feet, and Hisoka slowly follows. The anger and confusion bubbling inside him only gets stronger, wreathing like a handed hurricane. He focuses on gripping the picture, making sure that he doesn’t let go. He closes his eyes and thinks that maybe Hisoka already knows.

“Where did you get this?” he asks again. The question simmers inside his chest.

Hisoka meets his gaze. “Does it really matter?”

Illumi glances at the picture, and he wants to say that it doesn’t. He wants to say that when Hisoka holds his hand, his warmth is transferred to the other like a skimming kiss; or that Hisoka always tastes like cigarettes and bitterness, but Illumi can’t erase it from his teeth; or Hisoka is the name he has branded on his eyelids; or that when Illumi plays the piano, he imagines Hisoka sitting beside him, paneling the texture of his face like a portrait, but this time, Illumi is already an art form Hisoka has made himself.

But the moment he takes in the jagged peaks of Killua’s collarbones, the symphony hidden in the laps of his eyelids, and the neon blue of his pupils – his heart momentarily wavers. His throat stops working, and all the words he’s been planning to say has died down in his lips.

It takes him a moment before he starts talking again.

“You’re not supposed to have this,” he says tightly. He grips the photograph harder. “No one is supposed to know about him.”

Hisoka’s voice is cool and soft. “Not even me?”

“Especially not you!” Illumi replies. His voice is pitched higher, deep with the resonance Killua’s face stranded on his lashes. “Killua is not a person you should know!”

“So, that’s his name, huh?” Hisoka answers. “Killua. It fits.”

Illumi’s face heats up. Hisoka’s words flood the stitches of his mind. “Why are you telling me this?” Illumi asks. He steps back. “Where did you _find_ this?”

“Does it really matter?”

Illumi almost falls back when he looks at Hisoka’s face, and he’s surprised to find out that Illumi has never really looked at him. He just found what’s simply on the surface. Machi is right – there are dark crescent moons under his eyes, his lips are sewn tightly together, and the golden hues of his eyes have faded like pale vodka. The moment Hisoka opens his mouth to speak, Illumi backs away like he’s attempting a slap, but the truth is that he just doesn’t know how to get back the person he never had.

 

~***~

 

This is the fight he’s been anticipating, but that doesn’t mean that he’s hurting any less. Illumi’s anger is a clear as glass on his chest. Hisoka can see the harsh beating of his heart like the fire of a forest. He doesn’t know which direction it’s going, which only makes it that much easier to burn.

He doesn’t know what to tell Illumi, or whether he should tell the man anything at all. But his chest is about to rip open like a sliver of light against the wall. The only difference is that Hisoka no longer knows where to fall.

“Your mother generously gave it to me,” Hisoka says. His stomach is churning with all the words he’s trying to replace. “Since you didn’t have the fucking guts to tell me, I figured she was doing you a favor.”

He didn’t realize how angry he was until the verbal slap caused Illumi to nearly lose his balance. Now, Hisoka wants to hurl every single letter from the string of his lips until the pain he’s swallowed is purged from him. There’s a slab of vomit stuck in the strand of his throat. Even as the tension grows between them, all Hisoka can smell is the lingering loop of smoke.

“You weren’t supposed to know about him,” Illumi repeats insistently.

“Because he doesn’t matter, or because I don’t?”

Illumi squeezes the photograph in his hand and unconsciously brings it to his chest, as if the picture is asking for protection, and Illumi is the only one who can give it. He closes his eyes shut as the photograph practically cradles Illumi’s chest in his embrace. Hisoka watches it silently, and he wonders whether Illumi has saved him a place in his heart, or every single space has already been taken by that mere photograph.

Hisoka almost hunches forward in pain. His chest coughs against the smoke curling around his lungs. His teeth are smothered by every secret he has wanted to burn. Now, he realizes what he’s been so bothered about: looking at Illumi sink into his world – a place where Hisoka doesn’t exist – he understands for the first time what sin he has committed. Illumi has been trying so hard to find a man with wings, and Hisoka was the only person foolish enough to clip it away. All because he was so entranced by Illumi’s being that he didn’t realize that he was already falling – just when no one is there to catch him.

“You love him,” Hisoka states, breaking the barrier of Illumi’s borders. “You’re in love with him.”

Illumi opens his eyes, and his arms hang limply at his sides. “He’s gone,” he says, voice thick.

“That doesn’t make you love him any less.”

When Illumi doesn’t answer, Hisoka continues. “But that’s okay,” he says. He looks at the ceiling, where a mocking smile of a ghost has been imprinted. A defeated smile graces his own lips in return. “Because I don’t want to love you more.”

Once the silence has keeled over, he turns on his heel, feeling his back scorching from Illumi’s gaze. He exits his own apartment, and he shuts the door behind him. He finds himself striding to Machi’s doorstep, and he leans his back against the wall. He scrubs his hands over his face before he sinks to the floor.

He was trying so hard to find Illumi that he didn’t realize he was blindly looking for someone he had never lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Sorry for the chapter update. ;) Please comment if you have anything to say. :) ~


	25. We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback chapter.

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

September 2011

 

 

Nowadays, the most shocking thing that has happened to him these days is the flat tire he got on the way to work. His wife said that she’d already gotten it pumped, although the car skidded to a complete stop blocks away from the police station. When he got home, he was wrecked and tired and angry. There was only so much a police officer could manage in one day, and a flat tire was not something he’d like to check off his list.

However, as he drives the police cruiser on the way to the Zoldyck mansion, he can’t erase the feeling that he’s being lured into some kind of trap. There is a buzzing silence the size of a hurricane settling over the city, making the houses they ride past lock their doors shut. Even Mamoru, who hasn’t felt pain in a while, can hear the wailing agony like a rocket against the roads.

He parks the car just in front of the mansion, the other police cruises tailing him. They hurriedly shuffle past the staircase as the butlers lead them to the crime scene. On the way there, Mamoru can’t help but stare at the classy and elegant designs of the mansion. Everyone knows who the Zoldycks are; those who don’t are either dead or haven’t gotten a taste of sunlight.

That’s why, when he suddenly got a call in the dead of the night from Kikyo Zoldyck herself, hysterical and angry and weeping against the receiver, he was caught off-guard. He’s inside the mansion of a sophisticated family. This is the house of lawyers, of people who practically help conduct the law. Who would dare trespass their quarters and think they could get away with it?

When Mamoru opens the door to a study, he realizes his mistake: what if the killer was already here before the crime could even begin to take place?

The police begin to shuffle inside the room to inspect the current situation. Mamoru watches everything from one perspective, and he follows the trail of blood leading to the center of the study. The carpet is splotched red, oozing with pain the shape of fists. Mamoru bends down to grab a sample of the blood and slides them into the evidence bag.

He’d get this to Megumi for a DNA analysis, although the results may take him days to get. This is the Zoldyck family he’s talking about. If he wants them to get the satisfaction they so awfully deserve, he has to work harder to get it. He faces one of the butlers, taking in the deadly silence of the house for the first time.

“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Zoldyck?” Mamoru asks. “And where’s the victim?”

The butler clears his throat, folding his arms neatly behind his back. “They’re currently in the hospital to bring the two young masters there.”

Mamoru’s eyebrows squint together. Masters? He thought there was only one boy. “The victims are still alive?”

The butler hesitates for a few moments before he finally gives an answer. “I hear,” he says carefully, “that master Killua is currently in the ER.”

“And the other?”

“Well,” he answers. “Master Illumi is just fine.”

Mamoru glances back down at the stained carpet, frizzing with blood like a red sea. He takes another sample of the blood on the carpet, just in case.

~***~

 

“How is he?” Silva asks when he sits beside Kikyo in the waiting area of the hallway.

The hospital corridors are blanched white, which makes Silva think of too fragile sheets of paper. Any time now, and the building will collapse on him like a card tower. His eyes are tired, and his stomach feels queasy. The ride to the hospital was a bumpy one. He almost wretched everything he’s eaten the moment he got off the ambulance. Even until now, he can taste the bitter blood squeezing from the insides of his cheeks like a sprouting seed. It only keeps on growing.

The soft sound of his wife’s voice pulls him back into reality. “Killua,” she whispers, her tone as delicate as a bud. “What happened to Killua?”

That is a question Silva can’t answer, simply because he lacks the words she needs to hear. Killua is currently in the emergency room, where he’s hopefully regaining his consciousness. When they rushed to the hospital, Silva was still holding on to his hand, as if he were giving his son the strength he lacked. However, the moment they stepped out of the vehicle and watched his son fall limply into a stretcher, Silva knew that his hope has been suddenly cut off like a dice of a finger. No matter how much he wants the pain to go, it will always linger.

But that’s not the only problem he has. Even when the hospital corridors are filled with silence, he can hear the ghosts whispering like a cult against his ears. He can hear the dreary piano chords like a symphony all the way across his chest. He covers his face with his hands, resting his elbows on his lap. Despite the fact that he’s no longer inside the mansion, he still feels like he’s never left, not when the voices are as loud as gunshots in the hollow of his head.

And he knows exactly where it comes from.

“Where’s Illumi?” Silva asks, trying to get his wife to concentrate. He hesitantly reaches for her hand, folding their fingers together like the curl of a wedding band. “Where’s our son?”

Kikyo looks at him as if he was crazy, and that’s when he realizes the fault in between the lines of his question. Kikyo’s eyes are hazy, emptiness found in the bulk of her throat.

Silva looks at their wrongly intertwined fingers. _Maybe_ , he thinks, _that’s what I should have asked all along._

His train of thought is interrupted by a doctor – the man who was leading Killua’s stretcher to the ER; the one who was checking the BPs, the heart rates, the beats of Killua’s pulse – things Silva should have known before anyone else. He pushes his glasses further up his nose, ignoring the heated and exhausted stares of the couple in front of him.

“Mrs. and Mr. Zoldyck,” he says. “I’m very sorry to say that your son couldn’t make it.”

 

~***~

 

Illumi Zoldyck is a walking ghost in the hospital corridors. Nurses walk past him, as if he isn’t even there. His head is hung low, and his limbs are numb against the knobs of his bones. The moment he sits down near the nursery of the hospital building, his eyes glaze over to the ceiling. He tips his head back as he watches the light buzz whenever a mosquito dares to touch it. It reminds him of his own wings; it can’t face the sun without completely burning.

There is a cut on his left temple and the upper corner of his right cheek. When he brushes his finger against it, the scar starts to sting. Blood cakes portions of his hair like a mud pie. He rakes his fingers through the strands to get them loose, but his hand only gets stuck at the thickly snarled edges. He takes a glance at the tips of his hair, where his hand has been carved through.

Even when he doesn’t have the gun in his palm, he can feel the weight of it, the sheer coldness it brings to the bends of his skin. He can feel it sinking into his hand, like the kiss of an old friend.

Without warning, his chest crumples, battered down and heavy with the beating he’s taken. He hunches forward, hiding his face behind his wet hair. He can feel the prickle of sweat hissing past his neck and shoulders. His fingers start to shake profusely, as if they’ve been zapped by lightning. He brings his pressed hands to his lips and closes his eyes, tasting his brother like a sin on his lips, like he’s still actually alive to bear witness.

His face shoots up when there’s suddenly a shadow looming over him, blocking the light from view. He lazily straightens himself, expecting to find his father like an angry hawk over his own son. But instead, he’s looking at an unfamiliar face, with a golden plated badge pinned to the pocket on his chest. He surveys Illumi like a chart, trying to find the answers Illumi is not willing to give.

“You’re Illumi Zoldyck, aren’t you?” he says.

“Yes, I am,” he answers. His lips are parched dry, stoning together like desert tombs. “What do you need?”

The man tilts his head to the side. “I’m detective Mamoru from the local police. I’m here to ask you some questions about the murder.”

There is a part of him that wants to say no, because his mind is occupied by fog, because his parents would want him to keep quiet until the case is solved. Instead, he stays quiet, even when the detective urges him upright. As he absentmindedly follows the detective into the hallway, where his parents are weaved with a certain kind of weariness Illumi has never seen on them, he can’t help but think: _I wonder if he’s already happy._

 

~***~

 

Silva can feel his wife going limp in his arms. He can feel her bones giving out like sand, and his palms aren’t big enough to catch them all. Heat is coiling in the backs of his eyes like rock salt. His hands are shaking as he tries to imagine his son’s palm draped on the curve of his, but it’s much smaller, practically the size of a small fist. Whatever Doctor Yoshida has told him has been engraved on his eyelids, but he still refuses to believe it.

Before Silva can stop himself, he says, “What happened?”

Dr. Yoshida hesitates. “He was shot in the head. It was instantaneous; he barely suffered.”

“I thought,” Silva breathes out, his voice breaking. “I thought he was alive when he got here.”

“Yes. But barely. Even if you’ve arrived sooner, he still would have died, either way. There was too much blood loss.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

Silence envelopes them like a blanket until Kikyo startles. She’s on her feet now, ready to accuse the doctor for something he could not have done. “ _Sorry_ ,” she hisses out, “doesn’t cut it. You should have tried harder! That was what being a doctor was all about, wasn’t it?” Her voice is pitched like a mountain, making Silva shiver. Tears are pooling her cheeks. “I could sue you for malpractice!”

Dr. Yoshida doesn’t blink an eye. “Suing me won’t bring your son back, and I’m sure the judge will agree.”

Kikyo’s mouth ventures into a thin line. Silva places a hand on her arm, pulling her back down.

“Kikyo,” Silva chides. He turns to the doctor, apologetic. “I’m very sorry. Can you please excuse us?”

The doctor nods. “Of course. But I’ll return in a while. You have to identify the body.” He begins to leave, trailing behind all the words Silva needs to hear, like: _I was mistaken, your son isn’t really dead;_ or _I’m sorry, but your son is simply in his room, sleeping;_ or maybe even _He’s still breathing_. Just anything to prove that Killua is alive in the burns of his chest, that the son he loves isn’t fully gone yet.

Silva gathers Kikyo in his arms, stroking the length of her back until her sobs even out. They don’t say anything, because the letters hanging in the air are shot wounds. They’re too raw to fool. Kikyo’s head is tucked carelessly on his shoulder. Silva realizes that this is the first time his wife has had to let someone else support her. But what can he do when he’s not even a strong enough foundation?

“Excuse me, Mr. Zoldyck?”

Silva swerves his head to see a detective in front of him, Illumi in tow. He reaches out behind the man for his son, but when he finally grabs hold of Illumi’s arm, he feels like he’s touching absolutely nothing. He swallows thickly. “Yes. What do you want?”

“I’m detective Mamoru. I’m here to question your son for the murder.”

At that, Silva explodes. He lets go of Kikyo, turning to the detective like a bull on fire. “Oh, for goodness’ sakes! Can’t you see that my son isn’t in any condition to answer your questions?”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Zoldyck, but I’m only trying to do my job.”

Silva’s eyes narrow before he finally lets out an exhausted sigh. “Have you Mirandized him?”

The detective diverts his eyes to the side. “I will.”

Silva takes one look at Illumi, whose hair is dampened with blood, whose cheeks are cut, whose heart is sliced perfectly, and Killua has the other half. There is a lump of bone stuck in his throat. He wonders if it’s a bullet, transferred to his body as soon as Killua was shot dead.

“All right,” he finally says. “But take it easy on him.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the detective leaves with Illumi, Silva turns to his wife, but Kikyo is nowhere beside him.

 

~***~

 

The blinds are closed shut behind her. Killua is lying on the table, his body limp and ceased with breathing. Killua is not dead; he’s simply sleeping. Kikyo manages to come closer. Her hand is draped on the smooth curve of her cheek, and a rush of memories flood past her: the time Killua went outside, urging his mommy to follow; when he first played the piano, his talent like a powerful execution; the first time his eyes turned dark blue with anger; and her last: Killua’s light silver hair spoiled with red. That is not a memory she would like to remember.

She’d rather not know he was dead at all.

But his eyes are gently closed. His eyelids are decorated with veins. She slowly turns his head to the side, where she can see a hole near the center of his temple, the size of a fingerprint. Vomit rises to the ladder of her throat. Killua is not dead; he just has a hole in his head.

Her hand trails down the skin of his arm, urging him to shoot forward like a zombie. She doesn’t care what happens; she only wants her son back. She grasps his wrist and tries to pull him upward, but his body only lolls like a heavy sheet. Tears start to form at the corners of her eyes again. She bends down to press her lips against Killua’s forehead.

“Hush now, my baby,” Kikyo murmurs. “You’ll be all right.”

But before she can say anything more, she hurries out of the examination room. She pushes past the nurses staring at her distraught state. She reaches the vending machine, and she suddenly lurches forward, making the trashcan catch the bile from her mouth.

 

~***~

 

Mamoru doesn’t know what to expect from Illumi Zoldyck. But he just knows that there’s something about the man that’s intimidating. It’s probably because he’s part of a family of highly esteemed lawyers, and his name is all the justice he needs. Or maybe it’s how Illumi carries himself, with the straight line of his back, the composure he has in his eyes, the things he’s hiding in his teeth – and Mamoru finds himself wondering if he can get Illumi’s secret.

He leads the man into an empty canteen. He takes a seat on the other side, with Illumi in front of him. His head is hung low, his face curtained with the long strands of his hair. Mamoru places a tape recorded in front of him. “Are you ready?”

Illumi nods stiffly.

Mamoru pushes the on button and speaks. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court.” He leans forward, clasping his fingers together. “Mr. Zoldyck –”

“Illumi,” he interrupts. “Call me Illumi.”

 _Great_ , Mamoru thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Illumi,” he corrects. “Where were you when your brother was murdered?”

Illumi is quiet, which reminds Mamoru of the silent screams of the night when the police drove to the Zoldyck mansion.

“Murdered?” Illumi repeats. “Who said he was murdered?”

That stops him in his tracks. Who _did_ say that he was murdered? Kikyo Zoldyck. She hastily told him that there was a murder in the mansion, although Mamoru never thought of asking her for more – maybe from the fear of the woman herself, or his naivety to trust her words completely. Now, looking at Illumi, he feels like a total fool, as if the kid has lured Mamoru straight into his trap.

“So, no one killed him?”

Illumi shakes his head.

Mamoru taps the recorder impatiently. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have you say it out loud.”

“No.”

“So, if he _wasn’t_ murdered, then what happened?”

Illumi lifts his head, his clear skin flashing like a moon under the lights. “He killed himself.”

 _A suicide_ , Mamoru thinks. If it were a suicide, then why did Kikyo Zoldyck announce it as a killing? Mamoru stares at the table, and realizes that Kikyo Zoldyck does not want to admit her mistake at all.

“Where were you when he killed himself?”

“I was in my room,” he finally says. “Sleeping.”

“What time did it happen?”

“About a few minutes after midnight. Maybe 12:03.”

“Who found him?”

“I did.”

“What did you do?”

“I . . .” His voice is thick, beaded with the pain he’s been trying to keep. Mamoru recalls Silva Zoldyck’s warning to go easy on him. “I hugged him,” Illumi answers, eyebrows furrowed. “And I told him that it was going to be all right.”

“What did he say?”

“He said,” Illumi says, wheezing out, “that he just wanted to be happy.”

Mamoru looks at him, his frown tight. “You said that you were sleeping in your room when it happened. How did you wake up?”

“There was a gunshot. When I heard it, I went to find the source.”

“Where?”

“In my father’s study.”

Mamoru presses a finger to his temple, pushing away the throbbing pain in his head.

“Did you find the gun?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Beside my brother’s body.”

“Did you touch it?”

“No,” Illumi answers, voice strewn with tears. Mamoru can feel his own heart speed up, although he’s not sure whether it’s because of his fear for Silva Zoldyck, or because of the pain Illumi is experiencing. “I couldn’t bear to touch it. I only wanted to hold my brother.”

“How close were you and your brother?”

Illumi swallows. He fiddles with his hands under the table, avoiding Mamoru’s gaze like it’s about to freeze him. “We’re very close,” Illumi admits. “Killua and I talk about everything together. I love him . . . as a brother.”

Mamoru only raises an eyebrow. “Did he ever tell you about his suicidal thoughts?”

Illumi shifts in his seat, avoiding the detective’s gaze, as if returning it would make his secrets sink to the floor like a present. “Sometimes,” he says. “He always tells me that he just wants to be happy.”

“Did he ever elaborate on that? Was he depressed?”

“No, he didn’t. And no, he wasn’t depressed.”

This is the kind of case he doesn’t even want to understand. Clearly, Illumi Zoldyck is a nutcase if he thinks his brother killed himself without having ever been depressed . . . unless, Illumi isn’t telling him everything Mamoru needs to know.

“Did he ever mention anything about hurting himself?”

“No.”

“Did he ever straight out mention to you about killing himself?”

“No.”

A kid doesn’t just kill himself out of the blue, unless the people around him are too blind to see what’s happening. And for a person like Killua Zoldyck, who seems to be well loved in the family, getting ignored for his needs seems like a bland lie. But that is considering that he ever killed himself at all.

Mamoru nods. “Okay. Thank you.” He turns off the recorder. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says. “You may go now.”

Illumi stares at him for a long moment before he takes off the seat, and he exits the canteen.

Even with his presence gone, Mamoru can’t help but imagine spearheaded snakes forming in front of him, where Illumi has been sitting. He can’t shake off the feeling that Illumi is lying.

 

~***~

 

 

Chrollo has been ravaging on the strawberry pops for nearly half an hour now. He’s lying on the floor with Phinks beside him, relishing in the sheer heat of the base until his skin is burning. The sun is sifting through the open windows, making a hollow pool of the floor. It’s already setting past the city scrapers, waving its rays like fingers into the dull palm trees surrounding the building. Chrollo watches it jitter across his arms as he takes the strawberry pop into his mouth.

“Boss,” Phinks says. “You sure you want all of these? I thought you said you wanted to diet.”

Chrollo smiles a little, taking a bite of the ice cream. “As far as I can see,” he says, “I don’t really have anything to diet for.”

That was his resolution a month ago. But now, he’s thrown that checklist away, replacing it with a much simpler one. After all, why do something that takes time when he’s already gone?

He turns to the man beside him, who’s looking at the strawberry pops like they’re needles. But Chrollo knows what Phinks is really thinking – anyone in the troupe can take one look at the pink colored ice cream, and think of the only person in the room bright enough to resonate the hue. Chrollo stares at the melting pop in his hand, letting the liquid trickle down the curve of his palm until it’s threaded with pink. He slowly licks it off, not surprised at all when he imagines Hisoka against the bank of his eyelids.

“Phinks,” Chrollo says. “Do you ever think about dying?”

It’s clear that the question is unexpected. Phinks blinks at him in surprise, gathering his knees closer to his chest. He stares at the floor, where the sun has made a lake. “Sometimes,” he admits. “What we do is dangerous, I guess. I mean, it’s not the arresting I’m worried about, but getting killed. We’re not the only gang here.”

Chrollo nods. “I see. Have you heard that story where a man committed suicide on the tallest building in the city?”

Phinks stares at him for a long moment, and Chrollo meets his gaze. He wonders whether the man has caught on, or whether he’s simply overlooking the facts right on Chrollo’s cheeks, just like everyone else who doesn’t want him to leave. “Well?” he presses. “Have you?”

“I think so,” Phinks replies slowly. “They said that he couldn’t bear to live anymore. He was a painter, right?”

Chrollo nods. He remembers the strawberry pop in his hand, and he bites the tip off before throwing away the rest. He can feel the ice cream cooling on the brush of his tongue, sweet and longing like the stroke of Hisoka’s fingers on his arm. “Indeed he was. Do you think painters are depressed people, Phinks?”

“Uh, boss?” Phinks asks, hesitating. “Do you mean Hisoka or . . . someone else?”

Chrollo shrugs. “Whichever you prefer. They’re all the same, anyway.” But even he knows that’s not true. Hisoka’s talent makes him shiver, as if the man has planted something inside his skin that he can’t – and won’t – get rid of. There are even times when Chrollo can smell remnants of paint in between the slices of his fingers. And when the night is looming over his shoulder like smoke, he can feel Hisoka’s presence twisting like a ribbon against the sheets.

Hisoka is different. Even when he’s quiet, he speaks.

“I think,” Phinks starts, “that painters are just fucked up and unbalanced people. Like Van Gogh or whomever fucker Hisoka admires.”

Despite the tone, Chrollo actually laughs. Phinks’ clear irritation for the man never ceases to amuse him. “Is that jealousy I hear, Phinks?” he sings out.

Phinks’ face goes red. “Of course not, boss. I’m just saying the truth.”

“Of course,” Chrollo agrees, teasing. “Well, what do you think about musicians?”

Phinks takes a moment before he answers. “I don’t really think they’re any different,” he says, shrugging. “Painters, musicians – they’re kind of the same, don’t you think?”

Chrollo looks down, nodding, but his mind is already oceans away. He traces the floor with the strawberry pop’s liquid, forming letters he can’t perfectly shape.

 _Maybe,_ Chrollo thinks, _this is why I was never meant to stay._

 

~***~

 

“This is very cliché, you know that, right?”

Hisoka glances back to watch Machi follow him unsteadily to the rooftop. Her knees buckle slightly, her face blanching when she realizes how far they are from the ground. Hisoka swiftly seizes her arm, and he’s awfully aware of the way their skins ignite like red dwarfs the moment they brush together. He curls his fingers around the shape of her arm, keeping her upright.

“Relax,” he soothes. “And I know. But you know what would have been more cheesy?”

Machi stares at him drily, although a grateful smile eases her lips. “What?”

“Pointing at some random star in the sky and saying that you’re more beautiful,” Hisoka says. “Now, _that’s_ going to earn me a slap.”

“Oh, no,” Machi teases. “I’ll literally push you off this building.”

“But I _didn’t_ say that, so I’m safe. Now, sit down.”

Machi glances at the ground, surprised to find a flat platform, completely different from the stairs they had to use to get here. Hisoka taps the space next to him until Machi finally takes a seat. She folds her legs underneath her thighs and spreads the blueprint in front of them. Hisoka stares at the sky, watching the clouds dissolve like lavender marks across the sky, the stars streaking the indigo blanket like a golden wing.

Everything he wants to say gets stuck in the roof of his mouth. “Remind me again,” he breathes, “why we don’t do this often.”

Machi glances up, her eyes a bruising blue as she takes in the sight. “Because you don’t usually have astrology homework,” she says drily, but her voice is soft and hazy. She looks back down at the blueprint, tracing her finger across the dotted lines. “So, what should I do again?”

“You have to point at a constellation, and then I have to tell you what it is.”

“Okay,” Machi says slowly. “And if you don’t get it right?”

Hisoka taps his chin, thinking about it for a few seconds. “If I get more than half of it right, I get a kiss.” He grins wide, his lips practically spreading like a wishbone on his face. “And if I don’t, then you get to slap me – hard.”

Machi laughs. “Sounds like a good deal. Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

“All right.” She glances down at the paper before folding it in half, raising a finger to a constellation. At the bottom right is what seems to be a knitted mitten, connected tightly to a zigzagged line, protruding two stems from two different points. “What is that?”

Hisoka stares at it, heaving a sigh. He lowers his head, gathering it in his hands. “I’m guessing it’s Aquarius?”

Machi laughs at him again. “And I’m guessing you did not study at all, didn’t you?”

“You guessed right.”

“Unfortunately, you did, too.” Machi shakes her head and begins to point at another random constellation. This time, the dots are forming into an umbrella, the other end peaking into a slanted line.

“Grus?”

Machi sighs. “If you get another one right, I’m going to shove this blueprint at your face.”

Hisoka simply chuckles.

“What about that one?”

The dots are connecting upwards, bent at difference angles. If Hisoka looks at it from another perspective, it looks like the skew of a mountain, bearing two others like knobby knuckles. His mind absolutely digs for a name, hoping that the letters forming in his head is the one he needs. But he comes up short, and his eyes fly open in defeat. “Uh, Octans?”

“No, that’s Lacerta,” Machi replies, letting a smile creep on her face. “One point for me.”

“How many do we have left?” Hisoka is somewhat hopeful that he might get the others right. He can feel their bodies unconsciously inching together like the same dotted constellations, their fingers spreading like threads until the other one is tied perfectly. His arm grazes hers, and his bones shiver, as if her mouth has been pressed against his skin. Feeling the steam rolling off his stomach, and the jolt of his ribs, he realizes that there’s only so much more he can take before he finally gives in.

“Three more.” She lifts her finger to another. The formation is like a bland imitation of a house, with a line dancing across the bottom.

“Cepheus,” Hisoka answers.

Machi mutters something under her breath. She points at another one. There is an inclined square, with two lines keeling at one end, and a single line filing out of the other.

“I always wondered how that looks like a Pegasus,” Hisoka muses.

“And I always wondered how Poseidon and Medusa could create a horse.” Machi snorts. “What did Poseidon have in his pants in the first place?”

“Probably something neighsty.”

Machi’s head swerves toward him in disbelief. “I’m not kissing that mouth of yours until you get rid of that fucking awful pun.”

Hisoka laughs. “We’re not even done yet.”

“Unfortunately,” she replies, her mouth set in a thin line, “but you’ve already won.”

“Oh, did I?” Hisoka’s eyes glint, the golden hues matching the silver pokes of the sky. “I didn’t even notice.”

Machi’s eyes narrow before she finally takes a deep breath. She clamps her hands on both of his shoulders, her fingers curling like a crescent against his shirt. Hisoka’s own hands are quivering, his bones nearly shaking out of their sockets as soon as he grips her waist. Every breath he’s saved up has dissolved in between his teeth like raw pain, the texture as rough as sawdust.

She slowly leans in, her breathing hitting the base of his lips, and even something that simple is enough to make his head crowd together.

But before their lips can connect, something shifts inside him – a feeling so weak and dented that it leaves him bleeding. His hands coil against her shirt, holding on to her before he gently pushes her away, covering it up with a playful grin. Machi inclines her head, confused.

“What is it?”

“You didn’t think I was serious, did you?” Hisoka laughs. “Come on, Machi. It was just a joke.”

Machi’s lips turn into a tight frown, zipped up and closed from all the words she wants to spit out. Her eyes flash blue with anger. She shoves him away, getting to her feet. “You,” she says, her voice threaded tightly, “are a huge asshole.”

Before Hisoka can say anything, Machi swiftly strides out of the room, bravely crawling down the staircase. He watches her damp footprints press against the cement like a fire trail, and his hand is carefully flattened against the space next to him, as if Machi’s warmth is too easy to take. His finger brushes against his bottom lip, wondering what it would have felt like if he’d only taken what he wanted.

“If only it were that easy to grab on to the rest of her,” Hisoka murmurs as he slowly stretches his body on the cemented roof.

But what, exactly, is he trying to hold on to?

 

~***~

 

Silva is checking off the things on his list for the funeral arrangements. He’s talking to his wife over the kitchen counter. He’s been sprouting expenses for the flower arrangements, the money needed for the best casket, the fee for the priest, the tiny plot of land they want to place their son in. But his wife has stopped listening.

Kikyo is now fiddling with an apple, using her forefinger to carelessly roll it back and forth. The veins of her wrists look like they’re about to snap open and let loose the raw anger stuck in her bones. If it does happen, Silva won’t know what to do. Kikyo is usually so reserved and calm in difficult situations. During testimonies and cross trials, his wife is proud and poised, as if the very idea of her losing is something that must not be considered.

Even until now, Silva has expected her confidence to bring her up.

But obviously, his instincts are awfully wrong.

Silva is nearly at the end of the checklist when the apple wheels to the edge of the kitchen counter, and it flops to the floor like a cat pouncing. Kikyo doesn’t move, her finger stays stretched on the table, rubbing the tip back and forth, like the apple has never been there at all.

“Kikyo,” Silva says, reaching for her arm. “Please, listen to me.”

His wife snaps her eyes to him in response, but even with that sudden attention, Silva finds himself grasping for more. This is not the Kikyo Zoldyck he is used to; this is not the woman he married. But he figures, looking at the tired almond shape of her eyes, at the fleeting color of her skin, that grief can change a mother overnight. He should know, because Killua is not the only one who really died.

“Do you want dandelions or daisies or tulips?” Silva whispers, knowing fully well that she’s not going to answer.

Instead, Kikyo opens her mouth for a fraction of a second before closing it again. “Killua,” she says tightly, “is not dead. Why would you even ask?”

Silva carefully intertwines their fingers together the way broken bridges are made; there is no way that it would last, but the builders still hope for it anyway.

He brings his wife’s knuckles to the brush of his lips. He wonders if he has not loved his wife enough – and that’s why their bodies are connecting at a hindering distance.

 

~***~

 

Being in the middle of a doctor’s office is no different from standing in the middle of a courtroom: in both cases, there is always someone being interrogated.

Illumi tries to concentrate on his feet, but the black wood of Dr. Saito’s office keeps him distracted. There is a lush brown carpet snuggling comfortably at his shoes. The bookshelves are filled with leathered books. On Dr. Saito’s desk is a mixture of photo frames of his family – there is a little girl smiling like a dandelion in a field; there is a woman, her hands folded neatly like satin on her lap; and there is one of all three of them together, their smiles practically cracking the earth open like a rupture.

There is something to heartwarming about it that it makes Illumi’s body burn.

 _How come,_ he thinks, _we’ve never done that before?_

He shoves away his other thought: They won’t be able to do it anymore.

Dr. Saito gestures to the leather seat in front of his desk. “Go have a seat, Mr. Zoldyck.”

Illumi shakes his head. “Please, call me Illumi.”

Dr. Saito looks at him for a moment longer before he nods in response.

Illumi takes a seat on the chair, surprised when his body sinks against the fabric like manmade snow. He tries to keep himself upright, but Dr. Saito laughs.

“No, please, make yourself comfortable. That’s what the chair is for.”

Illumi’s throat constricts. “Okay.”

“So,” Dr. Saito says, clearing his throat, “I understand that you’re here because your parents told you to be.”

“Yes.”

His father suggested him to talk to a psychiatrist because Illumi refuses to open up to any of them. Of course, his mother disagreed. No son of hers needs help when it comes to this, not when the family bond is all Illumi requires to be happy. But Silva wouldn’t have it, and he dragged Illumi into the office. Even until now, this throat thickens like a connecting bridge, but there is a blockage at the end of it, so Illumi has no idea where it leads.

Dr. Saito nods, shifting in his seat. “And how are you feeling right now?”

Illumi looks at his folded hands, wondering how two different things can make the same pact. “I don’t know,” he answers. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

The psychiatrist nods again. “Do you have any trouble sleeping? Eating, maybe?”

Illumi avoids the psychiatrist’s gaze until the only thing burning the side of his neck is what seems to be the butt of a cigarette. “I have trouble sleeping,” Illumi admits.

“Go on.”

Illumi stares at him, as if he’s the one who’s gone crazy. No one has ever prompted him to continue. No one has ever told him to keep the well of his mouth open. He never really thought that someone was willing to listen.

“Sometimes,” he says, drawing in a shaky breath, “I can hear him, you know? Sometimes, I can smell gunpowder. And then . . . And then, the next thing I know, the screams get louder in my head, like there’s something . . . talking to me.”

“Talking to you,” Dr. Saito repeats. “Does that happen often?”

Illumi hesitates before he finally nods.

The psychiatrist pulls himself straighter, intertwining his fingers together until they’re in a loose lock. “What do they say?”

“They say things like ‘get out of there’ or ‘help me’ or ‘leave.’” Illumi glances up at him. “Is that normal?”

“Normal?” Dr. Saito shakes his head. “There are a lot of definitions for normal, Illumi. But I do have to admit that what you’re hearing isn’t included in the category.” He bites his lip, fiddling with his thumbs. “What do you experience in your family?”

Illumi’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do your parents have fights? Do you quarrel with your siblings?”

“Am I allowed to tell you this? Won’t this destroy the Zoldyck name?”

Dr. Saito smiles. “My professionalism tells me that I’m not allowed to spread this information about your family, so rest assured, I won’t tell anyone.”

Illumi ducks his head, almost embarrassed. “They fight,” he whispers. “But only in my head.”

Dr. Saito hesitates, and Illumi has figured out what he’s thinking: there is something wrong with him.

“Do you have ghosts in your house, Illumi? Is that what you’re always hearing?”

Illumi looks at him, his gaze thorough and as smooth as coal. “No,” he answers. “It’s just that no one in this family feels whole.”

Dr. Saito’s mouth is drawn in a thin and heavy line. “What do you feel about your brother? I understand that you were very close with him.”

“Yes, I am,” Illumi says. “He knows me, and I know him. We tell each other nearly everything.”

“Did you tell each other your secrets?”

“Yes.”

“How often did you open up to each other?”

“Almost everyday, or whenever I’m free.”

Dr. Saito takes off his glasses and rubs them with his shirt. His golden hair sifts under the dim light of the fluorescent lamps. “Were you always busy?”

“Yes. My mother studies law with me for my applications. I’m getting ready for college.”

“And how old are you?”

“I’m seventeen.”

He whistles softly. “That’s a pretty rough age to be pressured.”

Illumi curtains his face behind his hair. “That’s what Killua always says as well.”

“And did you agree with him?”

Illumi’s eyes stay focused on the bristles of the carpet. He imagines it coiling alive and wreathing against his ankles, preventing him from moving. Before he can think better of it, he meets the psychiatrist’s gaze, his eyes pinned with kneeling shadows, like it’s been hiding from the sun. He finds his throat unraveling itself like a cracked surface until everything he’s been wanting to say unfurls on his lips.

“I’m not allowed to,” he finally answers.

Dr. Saito furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t agree,” Illumi explains.

“And why not?”

“Because,” Illumi says, his voice needled like a stingray, “I don’t know how.”

 

~***~

 

There is absolutely nothing gloomy about this weather, despite the ashen shade of the soil Killua is being buried under.

Milluki watches the sun shift like a tide around the casket. He looks at his dead brother’s face, unaware that he’s clenched his hands into tight fists. He doesn’t understand how Killua could manage to bring this family with him, as if the ground isn’t even for one to sink in. He almost expects his dead brother to suddenly heave upward like a zombie, and he’ll play them all like fools.

But looking at the faces of his family, he knows they’re silently wishing for it to come true.

Milluki’s eyes zero in on Illumi, who has his gaze solidified on the murky soil beneath his feet. There are flowers growing around his shoes like they’re marking territory. Milluki wonders how something so beautiful can surround the dead, and he realizes that maybe that’s why Illumi looks like he finally belongs somewhere.

After the casket is carefully settled, the priest asks the family to step closer. Milluki hesitantly comes to the casket, avoiding the gentle shut of Killua’s eyelids, the relaxed edges of his lips, the fact that he’s never going to open his eyes ever again.

Milluki watches Illumi place his hand on the crystal of Killua’s casket, staining a handprint on the glass like it belongs to him. Milluki thinks about how Killua’s death has formed another zipper on Illumi’s mouth, and no matter how hard the others try to open it, nothing will come out.

But to Milluki’s surprise, Illumi’s lips break into a perfect circular shape, releasing every word like a dam just waiting to break. The letters of his sentences settle on Killua’s cheek. Milluki is sure that even Silva has stopped breathing.

“I love you,” Illumi says, as if that simple sentence is enough to weight an entire ocean around this family, as if that simple sentence is enough to make each and everyone of them finally feel complete.

 

~***~

 

Mamoru has not received a single call from Megumi in the past week, although he keeps on checking his phone, as if that very act will make her do it.

He called her the day after because he couldn’t bear to wait anymore. He already sent her the things she needed to analyze, and now he’s just waiting for her to reply. Honestly, he doesn’t know what he wants her to find – the only thing he needs is an answer to this unsolved case. Once he’s set his mind into something, he just can’t simply wait.

He’s lounging on the living room couch when the phone suddenly rings, and he immediately reaches for it. “Hello?”

“Wow, you’re excited,” Megumi answers. “Well, guess what? I’m nearly at your front door, and I need you to open it as soon as I get there because I’m freezing.”

Mamoru rushes to his feet and yanks open the door, revealing a shivering Megumi on his porch steps. She hustles inside, hanging her coat at the rack before she comfortable settles herself on the couch. Her brown hair is frozen over in some places, and her sweater doesn’t do her smooth skin any justice. Mamoru takes one glance at the curled tips of her eyelashes and knows that she’s about to shake uncontrollably.

He takes a seat next to her, hesitantly draping his arm over her shoulders. “I was waiting for you,” he says. “But why did you come all the way here?”

“Because I figured you’d like to me to discuss the results face to face.” She absentmindedly shrugs his arm off, and she displays the result sheets on the coffee table, as well as the blood samples she’s gotten, and the stained clothes, and of course, the gun and the bullets he found.

“So, what did you get?”

Megumi shuffles the papers separately, gingerly setting aside the gun like it’s going to explode. “Okay, so I know that you told me that this was a suicide case, but my results tell me otherwise.”

At that, Mamoru lets a grin slip on his lips like a noose. “I _knew_ it,” he says, curling his hand into a triumphant fist.

“Now, wait just a second there, genius. I’m still not finished.” She pulls out a sheet of the DNA analysis of the blood sample. “You sent me two separate blood samples. You found them in the same spot, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, despite that little information, I managed to get two different links. The first matches the DNA of the bloodstain on the shirt you gave me. I’m assuming that it’s the victim’s.” She shakes her head. “However, the second sample didn’t belong to the victim’s at all.”

“Did it belong to Illumi Zoldyck?” Mamoru presses.

“Most likely,” Megumi allows. “And the best part? The second sample matched the one of the gun’s _and_ the bullets, which means that . . .”

Mamoru’s eyes widen, and he pulls the sheet out of Megumi’s hands. “Illumi Zoldyck touched the gun, even when he said that he didn’t. Not only that, but the bullets as well. That indicates that he was planning to kill his brother all along.”

“Yes,” Megumi agrees. “That is correct. But here’s the other thing: I also found Killua’s handprint on the barrel of the gun. If Illumi Zoldyck _did_ kill him, then chances are he was trying to get the gun to face the other way, which obviously didn’t work.”

“But Killua’s handprint was only on the barrel and nowhere else?”

“As far as the results say, yes.”

Mamoru slumps against the couch, his chest heaving. Illumi Zoldyck lied to him, and Mamoru thanks God that he had enough wits to not believe the kid. But even with these DNA analysis presented in front of him, what can he really do? What _should_ he do, now that he’s certain that Killua’s death was not caused by suicide, but by murder?

He finds Megumi staring at him, her dark brown eyes reflecting the rough edges of tree barks. “What?” he demands. “What is it?”

She shakes her head again, like she’s regaining her consciousness. “What are you going to do now? This is the Zoldyck family we’re talking about. They have the law on their sides.”

Mamoru smiles a little, and his hand carefully trails to her own, enveloping it like a blanket. “But that’s exactly why I have to do it.”

 

~***~

 

Attorney Kaede Ito of the local law office near the bank of the bridge line of the city has been in the business for over seven years. Because of that length, she rarely finds anything surprising. She’s met attorneys who accept crazy clients as their defendants, lawyers who’ve won ridiculous cases that make no sense to her at all, and of course, she’s prosecuted dozens of well-known business owners, famous people around the country who couldn’t seem to realize what was at stake until they’ve been in jail.

But when Mamoru asks her to meet at the nearby coffee shop to discuss some details about a possible case, she is absolutely surprised to see the name engraved like a nameplate on the folder.

She lifts her head at him, shock evident on her soft features. “The Zoldycks? Really, Mamoru?”

The man nods, tracing his coffee mug. “I know what you’re about to say, but Killua Zoldyck was murdered last week.”

“And Illumi Zoldyck, his brother, was the one who killed him?”

“I believe so.”

Kaede Ito flips the folder and reads the documents, and the evidence Mamoru has offered. She bites her lip, thinking that if ever there were a way to instantly lose her career, this would be it. “This is everything you have?”

“Everything I could find at the moment.” Mamoru nods at the folder. “Think you’ve got a case?”

“I always have a case,” she replies. “But the question is: is it worth it?” She leans forward, closing the folder so that she won’t have to look at the photograph of the blood pooling the floor. This is no different from the usual murder charge. The only problem is that the person they’re charging is a member of a family not to be crossed. “Tell me what you know.”

“The kid was murdered in the mansion. He has a bullet hole right in the head. He died when he went to the hospital. The doctors tried to save him, but they couldn’t.”

“Where did you find the gun?”

“In Silva Zoldyck’s study.”

Kaede whistles. “Pretty rough. But Silva wasn’t involved in the murder?”

“I don’t believe he is.”

“What made you think that Illumi Zoldyck was?”

Mamoru hesitates for a moment. “He said that he was the one who found him, or at least in my perspective, killed him.”

“And the evidence supports your theory?”

“Yes,” Mamoru replies. “I got the results yesterday. The DNA analysis said that Illumi’s handprint was on the gun and the bullets found.”

Kaede stares at him, like she’s waiting for him to take every single word back. But Mamoru’s gaze stays steady on her own. They’ve been friends ever since they started to get in the business of law. They graduated from the same university, although while Mamoru transferred to law enforcement, Kaede decided to stick with law. Even with their differences, they both managed to stay on the same side.

She brushes the paper with her thumb, her chest heavy. To accept this case means that she has to accept the possible consequences. This is the Zoldyck family; they practically own the world of law in this city. If Illumi Zoldyck will be charged with first-degree murder, then surely, either Silva or Kikyo Zoldyck will be the one to defend him. And Kaede will hopefully prosecute him.

“Okay,” she says. “So, we both know that in order to have a first-degree murder charge work, we have to have the following: premeditation, willfulness, and deliberation. Was it a deliberate act? Where did he find the gun?”

“Silva Zoldyck admitted that it was his, but he has no idea how his son has gotten it.”

“Okay. Was it a willful act?”

“My guess is that he’s a fucked up kid who just wants his brother to be happy, only that happiness comes with a price.”

“You said that it was a suicide,” Kaede says. “But that only means that he’s smart enough to find an alibi. I’m actually kind of surprised he forgot about the forensic evidence. Surely, he knows enough about the law to know that he can’t get out that easily.”

Mamoru shrugs. “Hey, that only works to our advantage.”

She nods. “So, we have all three checked. Gather whatever information you can from the doctors and maybe even from the Zoldyck family.”

“Yeah? And what are you going to do?”

Kaede lets a slow smile creep over her face as she gathers the paper into the folder. She keeps them tucked against her chest, keeps them protected. “What else? I’m taking this to the grand jury.”

 

~***~

 

The grand jury sits inside the Superior Court of the city, listening to Attorney Kaede Ito discuss the latest case that’s about to be granted. The shock from their faces does not erase the entire time during which the Zoldyck name was mentioned. Everyone knows who the Zoldycks are, so this current revelation does not do their name any justice. It’s obvious that even Kaede Ito still hasn’t recovered from her surprise.

They listen to her recount all the information they need about Illumi Zoldyck murdering his brother, Killua Zoldyck. They take note of the medical examiner, telling them about Killua Zoldyck’s situation in the hospital at the time he arrived, or the neatly placed bullet hole near the side of his head. They do not bother to list the name Zoldyck in their minds, because they know that they’ll simply be trying to understand something they absolutely cannot.

Why would a family of successful lawyers ever cross the law?

But they continue to listen to Mamoru, the detective of the crime scene, talk about his interview with Illumi Zoldyck, and the ballistic evidence he found at the Zoldyck mansion. They continue to listen to him explain the evidence flashed on the projector like a movie. Because this can’t possibly be real.

Of course, in grand jury hearings, the defendant or the accused is not present during the time, nor do they even have an idea about what’s to come. Kaede Ito can only imagine the sheer shock on the family’s face when the news arrives.

Later in the afternoon, at approximately 4:05 PM, Kaede Ito is given a sealed envelope, indicating that the grand jury has officially accounted Illumi Zoldyck on the count of murder in the first degree.

 

~***~

 

The dinner table is quiet as usual, although there’s something about this silence that rattles Silva to the core. His eyes are drawn to the empty seat next to Milluki, the place where Killua should have been sitting. Instead, there’s only an empty dinner plate, with the utensils placed neatly at the sides. In its place is a certain kind of presence that not even the family can get rid of.

At one point, Silva expects a fork and a knife shackling at the plate like cuffs. At one point, his ears tug instinctively in its direction, as if Killua’s voice is still as strong as a drum in the pit of his head. At one point, Silva finds himself looking at the place’s direction, imagining Killua sitting there, with the same feisty blue fire forming in his eyes, with the same smooth and pale skin, with the same ghastly silver hair like electric currents.

Instead, what Silva is looking at is an empty seat. Even with Killua’s presence within the walls, the dining table still feels like there’s a link missing – and there’s no way any one of them can find the last puzzle piece, not when it no longer exists.

“Illumi,” Silva says, catching his son’s attention. “How did the visit to Dr. Saito go?”

Illumi looks at him, his mouth locked tightly like a glacier. He glances down at his plate, stabbing the pea and inserting it in between his lips. “It was okay,” he says slowly. “Will I have to go again?”

“Only if you want to,” Silva says. “Dr. Saito is a close friend of mine. He’s very gentle. I was hoping that you’d open up to him.”

“I did,” Illumi replies. “He’s indeed a good psychiatrist, father. Thank you.”

Silva nods, glad that there’s a little improvement. “Anytime, son.”

“Why,” Kikyo suddenly intervenes, her eyes cloaked with anger and grief, “does Illumi need to talk to someone outside the family?” She lifts her head to look at Illumi, her anger burning bright red on the contours of her face. Silva looks at it and thinks of the flood of forest rain; no matter where Illumi hides, Kikyo will always manage to find him.

“Illumi,” she says sternly. “You don’t need to visit this Dr. Saito anymore. You can talk to me.”

Illumi doesn’t say anything. His head is ducked low, as if he’s hiding himself from an expected blow.

“Kikyo,” Silva says. “Don’t you understand that Illumi needs to talk to someone else? We can’t help him in this aspect. He refuses to talk to any of us. You’re not any different?”

“And why not?” she demands. “I’m his mother. I’m required to act like one, and here I am. What’s so wrong with wanting to talk to my son?”

Silva can practically add more things to his list. Either Kikyo doesn’t understand what’s at stake, or she simply doesn’t want to see any of it, even when it’s laid right in front of her for the taking. _What,_ Silva thinks, _are you not seeing?_

“Illumi,” Silva says, as if his wife has never spoken, “your next visit will be on Friday. I’ll drive you on the way to the office.”

“Absolutely not!” Kikyo snaps. “Illumi is not permitted to exit the mansion, and that is an order.”

“Who said that you were allowed to order your son around?” Silva demands. “Illumi can leave whenever the hell he wants. I will not allow you to keep him inside the Zoldyck grounds.”

“I’m his _mother!_ ” Kikyo insists. “I’m only making sure that he’s being taken care of.”

“And not giving him the permission is one of them? Do you even understand what you’re saying, Kikyo? The only thing you’re doing to him is stealing his freedom.”

“And look what Killua got out of that!” Kikyo sneers. Her voice is already booming around the dining room like an opera house. Silva can feel his chest convulse, wishing that he would once again see the woman he thought he knew. But all he can place inside his head is the image Kikyo has contorted for him: a mother and wife who’s so scorned by freedom that she no longer realizes what she’s doing wrong.

“Ah,” Silva answers drily. “Yes. Of course. Killua’s death is his own fault. It was never yours.”

Kikyo rears back, like she’s been hit. Her eyes drown in hurt, the anger fading to back of her chest like a seeping flood. “I don’t understand you,” she says softly. “I don’t understand how you can be so _calm_ , now that your son is dead. Do you want to lose another one?”

“No,” Silva says tightly. “I’m only trying to keep myself from losing him, which is the complete opposite of what you’re doing.”

The tension between them cracks like a pavement the moment a butler hurries inside. His eyes are wild and panicked. Silva snaps his head toward him, surprised when he sees the faces of his other children adorned like agony on every nibble of their bones. Silva has been trying so hard to find a home in his wife that he forgot that he still had others to take care of. His eyes go immediately to Illumi, who has covered his face with his hair, hiding whatever pain he has to bear.

Right now, looking at the crystal of his structure fall, he asks himself whether he even knows his son at all.

“Mr. Zoldyck,” the butler says. “We have a problem. The police are outside.”

“Police?” Silva splutters out. “What are the police doing here?”

“They said that they needed to get Illumi, Sir.”

At that, Silva falls to his feet, sprinting to the front door. He yanks it open and glares at the first officer in view. “What do you want?”

The officer holds out a piece of paper. “We have a warrant for Illumi Zoldyck’s arrest.”

Silva swallows hard. “On what grounds?”

“First-degree murder,” the officer says. “I’m sorry, sir.” He pushes past Silva like lightning, finding Illumi in the dining room before Silva could stop him.

Two officers push Illumi against the table. His eyes are shadowed and gray – a color Silva has never seen on him, the kind of expression he never wants to see ever again.

“Silva,” Kikyo cries. “Do something!”

The officer recites his rights, and the other pulls Illumi’s hands behind his back, cuffing his wrists with the same metal bindings Silva has grown to seeing. But looking at it hook against Illumi’s skin makes him sick.

They hustle out of the mansion, and as Silva holds the door open, his throat tightly pained with all the words he wants to say, his hand subconsciously reaches out for his son. But they’ve moved too fast, and Silva only brushes with the officer’s uniform. Illumi cranes his head toward his father, his eyes bloated with fear.

“Daddy,” he whispers, and then he is pulled away.

As they drive out of the Zoldyck mansion, Illumi inside one of the cars, Silva falls to his knees, realizing for the first time that Illumi has called him a name he has not used in a decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super long, I'm sorry. I hope you guys like it. Please comment if you want to say anything. :)


	26. Home

Chapter Twenty-Six

 

December 2013

 

 

Professor Wing doesn’t have a lot of students asking to stay in the paint room. Most of them have no passion; this is just a major they’d like to focus on because there’s really else to do. But when Hisoka bursts in the middle of the doorframe of the art room, the golden vibrancy of his stretching like a palette across the floor, he immediately knew that he was the student Wing has been waiting for.

He doesn’t know anyone else with Hisoka’s talent – the certainty of every movement in his fingers; the way he fits the paintbrush in his palms, as if the lines on his skin are made perfectly for it; the reflection of sun panels in his eyes when he paints, like he’s creating a world only he can live in. Wing often wonders what the man is hiding, or whether this kind of passion has only been brought about by pain.

There is something about Hisoka that absolutely mesmerizes Wing. Maybe it’s Hisoka’s sheer talent, maybe it’s his passion for painting, or maybe it’s because of the fact that Hisoka is art himself. But those are exactly the reasons why he’s also scared of Hisoka, because the man is such an enigma that Wing can no longer recognize what colors Hisoka is using to paint himself, or if Hisoka has already filled every space of him in the process – or if Hisoka has been an empty shell.

Now, as he watches Hisoka glaze in front of the canvas, his body chained on the stool like he’s being shackled, Wing finds the hairs on his arms rising and curling. Hisoka’s hands are roaming over the canvas like a forest fire. His fingers are smudging the black traces of paint across the paper, but Hisoka doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe Hisoka knows fully well that he’s doing. The golden hues of his eyes are damp and heavy, the dim fluorescent lights looming over him.

Hisoka twists the paintbrush in between his fingers before he tosses them to the floor. He lifts the can of black paint in his other hand, while he uses his fingers to dip them in the container. The black paint drips from the curves of his fingers, shadowed droplets slinking past Hisoka’s fingertips. With careless dexterity, Hisoka rubs his fingers against the canvas, making the paint spread like a falcon’s wings across the page. The black edges out of its formation, but Hisoka quickly smothers the purple crests of the tips.

Wing is sitting behind him, looking over his shoulder to check what he’s doing. This is the kind of painting he’s never seen before, although Hisoka’s talent only makes it more powerful. Hisoka leans back a little, inspecting his work. But as soon as Hisoka closes his eyes, Wing winces, the swift pain striking at his back snaking its back to his neck, as if Hisoka’s art is suffocating him.

But if he’s only a spectator in this madness, then what will happen to the artist himself?

Wing’s shock only deepens when Hisoka stares at the black paint coiling like snakes against his wrists. Hisoka lifts his hands to his face, dragging his fingers over his cheeks. When Hisoka’s fingers connect against his chin like a knot, he brings his fingertips closer to his lips, coating the bow of his mouth with black paint. Hisoka’s eyelids are obscuring his pupils, but even Wing knows that Hisoka has been trying to eat his own madness.

Professor Wing walks toward Hisoka, clamping a gentle hand over his shoulder. “Hisoka,” he says softly. “Are you all right?”

Hisoka slowly turns around, and Wing almost takes a step back in surprise. Hisoka’s eyes are replaced with something throbbing and hollow. Instead of the golden cloud Professor Wing usually sees, he finally realizes that there’s a skull, instead – gray and bleak in his pupils.

When Hisoka finally raises his head, Wing realizes that Hisoka has simply been painting himself.

“Yes, Professor?” Hisoka’s voice drawls like nails against his ears. “Do you have anything I could do for you?”

Wing swallows. “I’d like to borrow your phone. I left mine in my office.”

Hisoka nods absentmindedly. “Yes, of course.” He reaches for his pocket and pulls out his mobile.

Wing nods his thanks and quickly exits the room, hoping that as soon as he returns, Hisoka will no longer be as fissured as the moon. He browses through Hisoka’s phone contacts and calls the first person on his speed dial.

There’s no use in keeping together a person who has never been whole, but Wing can never catch Hisoka’s split fragments in his teeth, so he’s simply hoping that someone else may be able to keep it.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka’s fingertips are unraveling like torn pages.

His nails are being eaten by black paint. His wrists are wreathing with the same forlorn color, and his skin is coated with ghosts all over. Even when he cracks the tension from his neck, he can feel the shadows breathing against him, suffocating every single pathway that leads to his lips, so that even when the darkness wants to fit itself in between Hisoka’s teeth, there’s no space big enough to keep it.

Hisoka’s cheeks are stinging. The black paint drips from his skin down his throat, trying to make a dirt road out the rocks lodged on his collarbones. He bares his fingernails down the canvas until the bottom ridges of them are cracked. His heart is combusting, filing itself into a hundred different pieces until he can find the last one he wants to carry. The only problem is that that piece no longer belongs to him – but to someone who would never take care of it.

Hisoka balances the container on his lap and plunges both of his hands into the black paint. He lets the liquid stick to his skin like poison. He lets the paint cling to his skin until the only thing he can absorb is toxin. He pulls out his hands and watches the black paint sink from his hands to his fingertips. He looks at the canvas again.

There is a dark figure on the canvas, half of the person’s face hidden by the tumbling edges. His fingers are jawed tightly in between his lips, the skin bleeding the moment his teeth burn into them. The graze of his neck is shadowed, but there are deep cuts from a tight noose, as if the rope has only been removed. His hair pool around the sheets like a dirt road, and there aren’t enough warning signs to get it through. But his eyes are what bar Hisoka the most. The eye sockets are missing, replaced by smoke. Even if it’s just a painting, Hisoka can feel it coaling underneath his nose.

Even when he’s not at home, he keeps on painting ghosts.

He doesn’t realize that Professor Wing has already left when the door opens behind him. He removes his fingertips from the base of his lips. Hisoka swerves around, suddenly alarmed. But the person in front of him is only Machi. She’s wearing her thick coat, burying her hands in her pockets. Her hair is wild, stringing like twigs around her face. Her cheeks are bright red, and even Hisoka knows that she’s burning. Her eyes resemble the hoists of frost, reminding him that he can never track what he wants to follow.

Hisoka lifts himself to his feet and frame Machi’s face with his wet palms. His body convulses, and his bones naturally give in. Machi clutches to his shirt like a lifeline, letting Hisoka fuse himself into her chest. His face is hidden in the crook of her neck.

“Why,” he whispers, his breath hitting her skin, “do you always seem to find me?”

“I didn’t,” Machi replies. “Professing Wing called me.”

Hisoka pulls away, noticing for the first time that her skin is stained. “How does that,” he says, “make a difference?”

As Hisoka’s heart wriggle like an ember, Machi tightens her hold on his shirt. Hisoka wonders why she’s the one holding on when he should have been doing that, instead.

 

~***~

 

Illumi’s chest is splintered with self-loathing. His bones are knuckled through the skin until the points he can see are the hundred directions his mind is trying to lead him. His feet naturally walk to the hallway of his mother’s office. His clothes are sticking to his skin, and his shoes are scuffling across the carpet like they don’t recognize his footprints. Even his clothes don’t seem to fit. Every time he breathes, a ghost appears in front of him. At times, the ghost has hair the color of spun spider webs; and other times, the ghost has eyes of spindled gold.

Even when they’re trying to pull him, Illumi has no idea where to go.

He stops in front of the door to his mother’s office. He opens the double doors for a tiny peek, and he sees Kikyo Zoldyck sitting in front of her desk. She glances at him, as if just that one simple movement is enough to trigger her motherly instincts. She beckons him inside, pulling her glasses off the bridge of her nose.

Illumi opens the door wider, trying to get the courage from the trap of his chest to the lighthouse of his lips. He enters his mother’s office, dragging his feet behind him. He can’t find the possibility that he’ll still be okay by the end of the night. But even when he’s happy, nothing is ever fine. He stands in front of her desk, and her eyes close in on his gaze.

“Mother,” he says tightly. “You met with Hisoka.”

Kikyo leans back in genuine surprise. “No, of course not, darling. What reason do I have to meet with him?”

“You despise him,” Illumi responds drily. “You absolutely abhor the effect he has on this family. Your disgust toward him is awfully undisguised.”

Kikyo narrows her eyes. She folds her fingers together, like she’s trying to keep them still. “Your accusations of me are not appreciated, Illumi. You know fully well that in the court of law, you can’t prove something without showing evidence. I’ve taught you this.”

“You’re forgetting one thing, mother: we’re not in a courtroom. We’re in the Zoldyck mansion, and you still pretend that your pride as a lawyer is more important than this family’s demands of you being a mother.” Illumi tilts his head to the side, expecting her to intervene at any moment. But his mother only keeps silent. “And what kind of mother would lie to her own child?”

Kikyo keeps her calm gaze trained on her son’s face. Illumi knows that Kikyo Zoldyck can’t seem to recognize him.

“He deserved to know,” Kikyo answers, shrugging. “Killua was a part of this family. What right do we have to keep it a secret?”

Illumi can feel his shoulders vibrate with anger. His chest burns up against his skin, making a fire trail all the way to his shaking knees. “That was a secret he didn’t need to know,” Illumi says, his voice low. “Killua is dead. That doesn’t affect my relationship with him.”

Kikyo stares at him for a long moment. “Are you sure about that?” she questions. “Then, may I ask why you’re still keeping his pictures? May you tell me the reason why you still play his favorite music sheets? Or was that also a secret you wanted to keep?” Kikyo’s gaze makes his bones falter into hiding. “What more do you want to lie about, Illumi?”

“I’m not lying,” Illumi says stiffly. “Killua is _dead._ ”

His mother looks at him for so long that Illumi’s knees nearly buckle. He tries to concentrate on the puddle of blood he sees on the floor, and he wonders whether this conversation is also a dream, or Illumi has already contorted his perception of reality.

Kikyo shakes her head, and she opens the file of her current case, as if her son has never spoken.

“Killua is dead,” Illumi repeats, more insisting. “That does nothing to my relationship with Hisoka.”

“Then,” Kikyo says, pushing her glasses up her nose, “why are you still here?”

 

~***~

 

Machi doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do. When Professor Wing called her to step in as Hisoka’s current caretaker for the night, she wasn’t sure what to expect. She thought he had passed out for whatever reason Professor Wing could brew. But when she arrived at the art room, staring at Hisoka’s back like his spinal cord was jagging against his shirt, she immediately realized that Professor Wing’s urgency was an explanation all on its own.

No amount of hands could bring someone like Hisoka down, not when his madness has made a shroud on his shoulders, not when every little thing makes the cave of his chest shudder.

She watches Hisoka’s hands stroke the canvas like a bed sheet until all the wrinkles of the paper has stopped creasing. His fingers are still coated with black paint. But his wrists are already clean from the wreathing snakes around his skin. Machi doesn’t think she can last another second if ever she looks at it. Her hand is already on her cheek before she can notice her lifting it, and her fingers curl around her face. She remembers Hisoka’s painted palms pillowed against her face like she’s a painting, but she’s not beautiful enough for him to keep it.

 Machi hops from the stool, taking a glance at Hisoka before she goes around the room. There are paintings everywhere; some of them are pretty impressive, but the more she looks at the masterpieces these students have created, the more she thinks that no one can compare to Hisoka’s talent. It’s like his fingers were carved for painting, and his bones will shatter if he doesn’t do it.

There’s a canvas with a sunset draped like a handprint on the page. The clouds look like uneven hair strokes, smudging the canvas like smoky mirrors. The sea is the color of lavender, and there is a lighthouse placed on the rough edge of the cliff. A light sprays across the sky until the sun is hit. When Machi looks closer, she realizes that the ocean breach is the color of dark purple, and there are shadows dancing against the perfect curve. On the bottom of the canvas is Hisoka’s careless scrawl.

She proceeds to the other painting. This time, there is a shadow sitting on an unbalanced stool. His figure shudders like shards on the floor. The wall is the color of burgundy red, but the shade is almost the color of bleeding. The figure on the stool has its feet rooted on the bottom railings. Its hands are gnarled and misshapen. The shadow doesn’t have a face, but his teeth are gleaming like moon waves. At the top portion of the canvas is Hisoka’s name.

Machi’s skin shiver when she looks at another painting. There are two separate sides. The left has a mask the color of cigarette ashes. The eyes are wallowed by smoke, and Machi feels like there’s really nothing there to show. The mask’s teeth are replaced the ends of cigarettes, with its fog connecting to the other end. The other side has another mask, but this time, the color is bronze. It glints like ocean shards. The eyes are pooling with light, but the smile is stretched too wide. Machi almost thinks that it’s about to unzip like an unrolling banner – and she sees Hisoka right in front of her with the same expression.

She’s putting a fist against the base of her lips when she looks at another painting. This one is totally different from the rest, as if this one specific piece has stolen every single talent the others have created. There is a gray skull floating atop the page. The eyes sockets are empty, except for the smoke twisting like knurled roots. There is a cross reaching on its temple, and its jaw is loosely hanging open. When Machi leans down to touch it, she can feel her own fingers melting into its mouth, as if it’s inhaling every single mistake down its throat.

Machi swerves around when she hears a loud crash coming from Hisoka’s side of the room. Hisoka is now on the floor, unmoving. She rushes to him immediately. She kneels down to cradle his head into her lap. She checks his forehead to make sure that he’s not sick, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she can feel his chest working. Her hand presses against the pulse of his heart, and she hopes that whatever flimsy piece of it left will not come apart.

Hisoka shifts on her lap, his eyes drifting toward her like a lost ship. Machi doesn’t know where it has started to sink. His hand reaches for her wrist, and his lips touch the veins bridging it. “Sorry,” he says, his laughter soft. “I fainted again.”

“Yeah,” Machi says. “For like, two seconds.”

“I blanked out,” Hisoka says. “He used to do that a lot, you know? He used to space out, and when I talked to him, he just snapped back into reality.”

Machi swallows hard. “You went unconscious. For two seconds. There’s a difference.”

“Sometimes, it feels the same.”

His voice vibrates against her wrist, flinging past the length of her arm until it reaches her heart. “Don’t,” Machi whispers. “Don’t say that. You’re not going to be one of them. You’re not going to be a ghost.”

Hisoka looks at her like she’s exhaling smoke. Sometimes, Machi thinks that he’s not looking at her at all. “They follow me,” Hisoka says, “everywhere I go.” He closes his eyes shut, and his lips turn cold against her arm. “Where do you go when you don’t have a home?”

Hisoka’s breathing starts to slow when he drifts into sleep. Machi stares at the blue veins of his eyelids, wondering how he has managed to give himself away when he knew fully well that he’d have nothing to take.

Machi’s lips are branded on his forehead. “You search for the second best,” she whispers, and slowly, she lifts him to his feet, draping his arm across her shoulders for support. She drags him and his bag out of the room, her long fingers trying to keep his heart from coming loose, her bones trying to navigate a lighthouse he has never wanted to use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends. I hope you like this chapter. Please review if you have anything to say, thank you. ~ :3


	27. Candles

Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

December 2013

 

 

For a reason Hisoka can never seem to figure out, he and Machi always seem to do things in the kitchen. If he needs something cooked, Machi is already on standby. When he wants to request something, Machi has already tucked herself on the kitchen stool. The moment he’s looking for the lost piece of sanity he craves, Machi is on the kitchen counter, as if she’s ready to purge out what he’s hiding and keep it inside of her. So that just in case every single fragment of him is buried beneath the cavities of his teeth, Machi will be there to search for the missing piece – because he knows fully well that no one else will be able to do it.

As he enters the kitchen, he spots Machi mixing batter, the muscles on her arms tensing as she concentrates on stirring the batch. Hisoka wonders whether Machi simply has perfect timing, or if she thinks Hisoka won’t be able to find her someplace else. Hisoka almost lets loose the secret he has in between his teeth, but he clamps his mouth shut, so that not even Machi will know that he’s suffocating.

He props himself on the countertop and watches Machi work. After a few minutes of settling silence, Machi glares up at him. Heat is pooling the sides of her neck, making a lake on her cheeks.

“Are you just going to stare at me, then?” she scowls. “It’s kind of hard to bake something when you’re looking right at me.”

Hisoka shrugs. “It’s not the first time I’ve done it. I thought you’d get used to it by now.”

His statement only deepens the blush on her face. Her skin resembles the vibrant shade of her hair. Hisoka wants to reach out for it, wants to curl his palm on the curve of her cheek until she’s the one burning him with the same intensity. But he folds his fingers together on his lap to stop himself from moving. He knows that the moment their skins will brush, he will pull away. There’s no use in holding on to something that will never be able to stay.

“So, tell me,” Hisoka says, resting an elbow on his lap. “Why are we always in the kitchen?”

Machi lifts an eyebrow. “What?”

“You heard me,” Hisoka says. “I always find you in the kitchen. I’m surprised you haven’t devoured everything.”

“For your information, I don’t always eat when I’m in here. It’s the best place to study. And I should ask you the same thing: why are _you_ always in _my_ kitchen?”

Hisoka laughs. “Because this is where I find you.” He doesn’t say the words that have been burning like crossfire in the back of his mind: whatever happens, his body will always be drawn to Machi’s like intoxicated energy. His bones will diffuse if she peels herself away from him, and she will try to fit herself in between the spaces of her chest, even though she knows fully well that she’s only going to drown in toxin.

“We do everything in the kitchen,” Hisoka continues.

Machi glances up at him for a brief second before she ducks her head again. “Not everything.”

Hisoka knows what she’s talking about, and he wonders why she’s brought it up now. It’s the kind of topic she makes a point to avoid, simply because she knows what she’s in for. Hisoka unclasps his fingers from each other, hoping that she’ll glance at his palms and see the secrets he’s laid out on his skin. But she stays concentrated on the batter, as if the words on his knuckles no longer mean anything.

“Are you going to call him?” Machi asks, looking at him. She rests her hands on the edge of the counter, her fingers shaking. Hisoka almost grabs them, almost tangles their fingers together like lost lovers underneath the sheets. But he only tightens his hold on both of his hands and makes sure that when he falls, he’ll have enough time to land.

“Who?” Hisoka says softly.

“You know who,” Machi says tightly. “You can’t avoid this topic forever.”

“I can,” Hisoka says. “Because it’s none of your business.”

The moment the words fly out of his mouth, he knows that he’s made a mistake. When he brings his hand closer to Machi, she immediately pulls away.

“Then maybe next time,” she says, her voice strung so tightly that Hisoka falters, “you shouldn’t make it one.”

She stares at him a moment longer, as if her throat is being burned. He swiftly grabs her wrist before she can pull away, but she slides her hand out of his grasp just as easily. She turns on her heel and begins to leave.

“Machi,” Hisoka says, hopping off the counter. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m pretty sure it is, Hisoka. You don’t even have to lie about that one.”

Hisoka tugs the back of her shirt and prevents her from walking away any farther. “I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry. You know how hard this is for me.”

Machi wriggles away from him, clutching her shirt to let herself go. “You know what you’re sounding like right now?” she snaps. “Like every other pretty boy who’s asking pity from his girlfriend before they break up.”

Hisoka looks at her, trying to find the right words from his lips, but he comes up with absolutely nothing. “We’re not together,” he says softly.

Machi returns his gaze with the same intense stare, but Hisoka can see her walls crashing right on the soles of his feet, because Machi has only ever been bare and vulnerable in front of him. “Well,” she says, “isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

Before he can tighten his hold on her shirt, she finally wreathes away from him. She stomps out of the kitchen and saunters into the living room, curling her arms around herself to block the blow that’s about to come. Hisoka wonders what she’s protecting herself from.

“Just get out of here already,” Machi says. “Clearly, you don’t want to stay.”

“No, you don’t understand – ”

“What don’t I understand?” Machi interrupts, gritting the words from her teeth like cigarette ashes.

Hisoka paces around the room. A throbbing pain appears on the sides of his temples, and he covers his face with his hands, hoping that the pain won’t follow the trail to his chest, hoping that he won’t end up grasping for something he can never have. He looks at her. Her eyes are wide and a brilliant shade of blue. “I can’t lo – ”

The fire alarms blare like police sirens before Hisoka can finish his sentence. Machi’s eyes turn frantic, and she rushes to the kitchen to check. She returns back to the living room, her eyes frozen with fear. “We didn’t even put it in yet,” Machi says.

“Nice sexual innuendo,” Hisoka says drily. “Let’s go.” He grabs Machi’s hand, and this time, she doesn’t argue. He leads her out of her apartment and begins to run down the hallway. He can smell the smoke curling beneath his nose, but it has a different kind of texture. They’re trumping down the stairs when the sprinklers twist and uncap, releasing the water from the pipelines.

Hisoka immediately unzips his jacket and throws it over Machi’s head. He branches their fingers together until he’s sure that he won’t be able to let her go, and for one glorious moment, he finds himself clutching for home.

 

~***~

 

Turns out, the room at the farthest side of the building was the one who caught the fire. The perpetuator, a sixteen-year-old girl has been crushing on Hisoka ever since he moved into the building, accidentally let go of her lighted matchstick when she was testing out the scented candles she bought the day before. Now, firemen are ravaging the building with hoses, trying to lessen the gray smoke curling like steaming cups. The girl is leaning against one of the firefighter’s shoulders, sobbing for sympathy. Honestly, Hisoka can’t blame her.

There has always been something so magnificent in being burned.

Hisoka turns back to Machi, who’s trying not to shake inside his jacket. Her arms are coiled around her like a sweater. She doesn’t look at him. Instead, her eyes are trained on the ground, as if she’s expecting an ember to appear on the pavement and swallow her whole. _But_ , Hisoka thinks, _she can do that all on her own._

“Do you want coffee?” Hisoka asks. “I can go buy you some at the café you like.”

But Machi isn’t paying attention. Usually, when she’s mad, coffee is what loosens her up. But this time, her cold eyes are directed to the floor before she finally lifts her head. Hisoka steps back, surprised at the unexpected emptiness.

“If you were in your room,” Machi says slowly, “and the fire was eating everything, what would you save?”

“What?” Hisoka says. “What kind of question is that?”

“A logical one,” Machi replies. “So?”

Hisoka blinks repeatedly, and he rubs the back of his neck. He tilts his head to the side and examines the burning room, watching the fire retreat like frightened animals from the water escaping from the hose. Then, his eyes run over to his own apartment, where his paintings and paintbrushes and every single valuable thing is located. He doesn’t know what he’ll save, but it’s definitely not there.

Hisoka only shrugs. “I don’t know. Whatever I could find, I guess.”

Machi nods, and she walks closer to him. “And if you were in my apartment,” she says softly, “and the fire was eating everything, what would you save?”

He stares at her, like he’s expecting her to retrieve the words back in her mouth. But her lips are gapped, and he can see the bright line of her teeth. He wonders whether the secrets he’s been keeping have already been transferred to her lips. He wonders how he can find out. He wonders if it’s worth it. Hisoka glances at the open space in between her lips, and his eyes trot down to the side of her neck, to the rise of her collarbones, to the jacket clinging to her skin like a second home.

Hisoka finally passes the bridge and curls his palm over her cheek. He can feel it burning. Her skin has sent knots of ocean waves down the pool of his fingers, keeling over when they reach the length of his arm. His thumb traces the bow curve of her lips, and slowly, he starts to lean in. Her eyes shift toward his, and his bones almost paralyze completely. He can feel her breath on his lips, and he takes his time to close the distance between them.

But just when their foreheads knock together, someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir,” the fireman says. “It’s okay to go in now.”

Hisoka nods tightly, and he releases Machi’s cheek. He turns to her, watching the color fade from her face. “Let’s go,” he says. But her head stays ducked, avoiding eye contact.

This time, when Hisoka takes a step forward, he doesn’t grasp Machi’s hand. He continues to walk toward the building, which isn’t the first time he’s run away from what could have happened.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka is standing in the balcony of his room when he feels Machi open the door behind him. She enters the room, unzipping his jacket from her body. Hisoka watches her delicate fingers unravel his hoodie from her shoulders, her shirt rising when she takes it off of her. Hisoka takes note of the thin bone line of her hip, of the flat plane of her stomach, of her flustered skin.

Machi pushes the jacket in front of him. “Thanks for lending it to me.”

“Sure.” Hisoka accepts it, and he shoots it in the hamper. He glances down at Machi. His eyes stay focused on the pool of her collarbones, on the silver stroke of the moon on her throat. There are stars hiding beneath their skin, and Hisoka knows that if he collects enough, he’ll be able to make a galaxy. Hisoka clamps his hand on the side of her neck, fully aware of the fact that she’s heating up.

He leans down carefully, letting his lips fall on the hook of her shoulder. Hisoka feels her shudder from the contact. She grips his shirt, opening a button from its hinges.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, her breath soft and velvet on the shell of his ear.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Will you?”

Hisoka pulls away for a moment, staring at her face. He takes in the memory of her, brands it on his eyelids, so that even when he closes his eyes, he will always remember it. But her eyes are the color of frost, and her cheeks are sheathed like cloudy flesh. This time, it’s the kind of temptation he finds hard to resist. “No,” he says. “I won’t.”

Without answering, Machi unhooks every single button from his shirt. His lips work their way up to the line of her jaw, tracing the perfect curves like he wants everything memorized, like this is something he’d like to know his entire life. She pulls his shirt from his shoulders, her hand rubbing softly down his arms. He lets his shirt fall to the floor. When Machi’s fingers travel up his stomach, he can feel his chest loosening, as if it’s been hit by lightning.

The bridge between his collarbones gurgles like lava. He looks at her, like he’s asking for permission. She doesn’t answer; instead, she lifts herself on her toes and kisses him perfectly on the lips. She frames his face, as if she’s preventing him from thinking of anyone else. But even when he searches in his mind for another name, he finds himself looking at the same string of letters.

“You,” he whispers against her lips. “You, you, you.”

Hisoka grapples her waist, and he twists their bodies on the bed. Their limbs crawl upward, closer to the pillows on the sheets. Hisoka yanks her shirt from her body. He lifts himself and unravels her with his pupils. Her skin is flushed against his. The bow curve of her mouth is quirked like a petal. Hisoka dances his fingers on her stomach before he unclasps her bra.

Machi pulls the sheets over her in an attempt to hide herself, but Hisoka makes her release the blanket. He shoves the sheets away from her, so that he can fully see what she’s hiding. Hisoka’s breath fans past her neck, and he bites a tiny portion of her skin. He unbuttons her shorts, and he carefully slips his fingers inside her underwear. She splinters against him, her hands immediately clutching at his shoulders for support.  

He bends down in between her legs, pulling her shorts down to her ankles before finally pulling them off of her. He kisses his way up, mapping out the inches of her, navigating her vulnerability as if he’s finding something he’s always been searching for. When he moves inside her, his rhythm gets stronger as she rounds her mouth over the sliver of his shoulder. He finally realizes that what he’s been looking for has been right in front of him all along – he was simply too scared to hold on to what he knew he’d surely lost.

When they arch against each other like intertwined roots, Hisoka’s lips are branded with one word.

“You.”

 

~***~

 

Machi wakes up to the sound of shifting. She stares up at Hisoka as he pulls himself against the headboard. She gathers the sheets closer to her chest, but Hisoka isn’t even looking anywhere near her direction. Instead, he’s staring at the tangled connection of their legs underneath the sheets, as if he’s expecting their bodies to ravel together until none of them can escape.

She starts to think whether she’s made a mistake of letting him touch her in that way. But the moment Hisoka presses their lips together, all the doubts colliding in her mind have dissipated into nothing. Either way, Hisoka would have gotten what he wanted. Either way, Machi loves him too much to resist any part of him.

She curls her fingers around his wrist, and her other hand reaches for the back of his head. Before he can pull away, Machi makes his head bend down closer to hers, and she forces their lips together. She tastes smoke on the tip of his tongue, she can feel her teeth rotting the moment he breathes against her mouth. She wonders whether he’s taken anything from her chest, she wonders if he’ll keep it inside him.

Hisoka pulls away slightly, his eyes half-lidded. “We didn’t do it in the kitchen.”

Machi’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“This space,” Hisoka explains. He pats the empty portion in between them, as if that simple gap is enough to keep them from connecting. “It was meant for someone else.”

Machi stares up at him. Her heart starts to divide itself into tiny pieces. That way, when it falls off the edge of the cliff, it won’t take all the impact. She should have known from the start that Hisoka would never hold out his hand, that whatever happens, Hisoka will never be there before she actually lands.

When Machi starts to pull away from him, Hisoka snatches her back. He dives in for another kiss, not bothering to ask for permission. When he opens his mouth, Machi finds herself doing the same, and to her surprise, she tastes something full and real. It writhes in between her teeth until Hisoka stops to breathe. They stare at each other for a long moment, waiting for the other to say anything. But Machi’s lips are stamped with the secret that he’s passed over.

Finally, she takes the leap. “You’re lying,” she says.

Hisoka lets a small smile creep over his lips. “Well,” he says, “isn’t that my specialty?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha. I'm so sorry for this chapter. But I hope you guys like it. Please review if you have anything to say. :)


	28. No Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback chapter. :)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

December 2011

 

 

Illumi knows enough about the legal system to find out where he’s going.

His wrists are starting to itch from the handcuffs. The more he moves them around in his lap, the more the sensation spread from his wrists to the length of his arms. His veins feel like they’re clawing their way out of his skin, but the handcuffs are preventing them from doing it. Illumi rubs his wrists against his slacks, gritting his teeth when his chest tightens up. The feel of the heavy metallic bindings around his wrists makes it seem too real, makes it seem like his freedom is being taken away – or maybe it has never existed in the first place.

The officer beside him glances down at his shaking hands. “Better get used to it, kid,” he says, whistling. “There are earthquakes in that place.”

That place – jail. Illumi has been in one before when his mother wanted him to find out what criminals looked like locked up. Illumi stares at the fading streetlamps, the lights rippling behind him like ocean waves until the light has spread against the tinted windows. He forms his hands into fists, and he brings them up to his lips. He wishes his knuckles could spray the words he’s keeping into his skin, so that when he gets to the building, he won’t have to be talking.

The car halts in front of the city jail. The place is surrounded with metal gates, with barbed wires coiling like gnarled roots. The officer yanks him out of the car and into the building. The sheriff takes one glance at his face before Illumi ducks his head.

“From the Zoldyck family?” the sheriff asks. “What did he do?”

“First-degree murder, sir,” the officer replies. “Apparently, even they can’t get away with it.”

Illumi stares at the officer that’s bringing him in, at the firm grip the officer has on his locked wrists. The officer takes him into another room, inserting the key into the lock. The moment the cuffs break free, Illumi closes a hand over his other wrist. He rubs the sore spot, stroking his thumb against the throbbing lines of his veins. Illumi wishes that whatever fear is body is emanating won’t be seen on his face.

“Put your hands up.”

Illumi does as he’s told, and the officer claps his hands over Illumi’s body. He steals the house key, the receipt Illumi has kept for his brother’s favorite candy, and Killua’s photograph tucked in the safest corner of his pocket. Illumi stares at his belongings before the officer places them on his desk for safekeeping. He brings Illumi into the booking room.

The jail smells stale and earthy, as if there are rust and moss growing in between the clamped tiles. Illumi half expects the lights to burst with ivy, so that the moment Illumi touches it, he would no longer feel a thing.

The officer hands him a placard.

“Say cheese,” the officer mocks.

Illumi stares at the camera, tilting his head to the side as he examines the officer behind the screen. The man shudders when he realizes that Illumi is staring right at him. But Illumi keeps his eyes trained on the floor. He runs his thumbs over the rotting edges, wondering what the copper smudges are made of. When Illumi takes a look at his stained thumbs, he realizes with a startling jolt that it’s actually blood.

The officer leads Illumi to a single table, handing over a sheet of paper. There are questions that are meant to be answered, but Illumi’s hands are quivering so badly that he has to tuck them under the back of his thighs. Illumi ignores the officer’s stare burning like a hole on his forehead.

“You have to answer the questions, kid,” the officer says. “Or else, we can’t move on to the next stage.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Illumi says softly. He glances at the man, his eyes unblinking.

The officer must have seen something crack in Illumi’s eyes like stained glass, because he grabs the pen and leans forward. “Are you suicidal?” the officer asks.

Illumi watches the officer swing the pen back and forth before he finally answers. “No,” he whispers.

“Do you have AIDS?”

“No.”

“Do you have medical problems?”

Illumi hesitates for a brief moment before he shakes his head. “No.”

“Do you take any medication?”

“No.”

“Do you wish to see a doctor while you’re here?”

Illumi opens his mouth to give another ‘no’ answer, but something slaps the back of his mind. “Yes,” he says. “Dr. Yoshida.”

The officer nods, and they continue to answer the questionnaire. When they’re finished, the officer drags Illumi to a vacant room. He pops open a box and hands Illumi a gray jumpsuit.

“Go change,” the officer orders.

Illumi spreads the jumpsuit, his throat thickening like a willow. If Illumi wraps the sleeves around his neck, it will absolutely snap. “Here?” Illumi asks.

“Do you want to do it outside?” the man questions, his expression turning into steel. He turns around to give Illumi privacy, crossing his arms together. “Hurry up. I still need to bring you to your new room.”

Illumi nods quietly, changing into the jumpsuit. The fabric is gnawing at his skin. It almost feels like the murky substance of feces. Illumi tugs uncomfortably at the collar of the jumpsuit, even though there’s really nowhere else to run into. The officer takes his clothes and tosses them into the container.

The officer escorts him into the maximum-security division. Illumi stares at the gray catwalk, the color resembling the color of his clothes. Everywhere he looks, there are criminals locked behind the gates of the cells. Illumi watches a man stare at the empty corner of his wall, his body curled into a fetal position. The officer opens the door to a cell and gestures Illumi to come in.

“Welcome to your suite,” he says drily. When Illumi hesitantly takes a step inside, the officer pushes him farther in.

The moment Illumi inhales a whiff of air, the tunnel of his throat stops working. He chokes on the stubborn waves of air. The smell burns under his nostrils, making his throat flare. He turns to the officer, clasping a hand around his neck. “It smells,” he wheezes, “like smoke.”

The officer glances around the room before he shuts it back into place. “You’ll get used to it, eventually, kid,” he says. Then, he somberly adds, “You have to.”

The officer leaves quietly, without sparing Illumi a second glance.

Illumi inspects the place he’ll be staying, gagging at the vomit found on the floor, at the tarnished parts of the bed, at the tiny lip of the toilet. He settles down on the rusting cot. He thinks of home, where his bed is always kept clean, where everything smells like ivory. “It was a tornado,” he whispers, “but it was safe.”

He rolls over, pulling the top of his jumpsuit in between his teeth to keep himself from crying. Even when his nose gets used to the toxic smell of the vomit, he still can’t get rid of the smoke lingering like spray on the ceiling.

Even when he searches the cell, there’s no hint of a single cigarette.

 

~***~

 

There is always something so fascinating about smoke.

Chrollo can’t seem to find the words to describe it – how it attaches itself to the ceiling for one moment before it dissipates completely, or how it kisses the blemishes surrounding the sun, or the way it corrodes like coal in the pit of his lungs. There are times when he’s so entranced by what he’s seeing that he doesn’t realize where he is – and that is exactly what he feels when he’s with Hisoka, as if the world has already collapsed in the palm of his hands, and everything else has never existed.

Chrollo is lying flat on his bed, the cigarette hanging in between his teeth. He plucks it out in between his fingers. He blows another wave of smoke and watches it strew over his face like a portrait. He closes his eyes and imagines Hisoka shifting beside him, the man’s face upturned into a scowl. He pictures Hisoka reaching to steal the cigarette from his fingers, imagines Hisoka’s skin brushing against his, and for a moment there, Chrollo ceases to breathe.

He knows just how much Hisoka hates smoking, but it’s a habit Chrollo can’t stop that easily.

He turns to his side and slips his hand underneath his pillow. His fingers clasp around a warm gun, its heat radiating to the tips of his fingers. He’s been sleeping with the thing ever since he found it, or ever since someone gave it to him. He prods the barrel with his finger, wondering what will happen when the bullet absorbs all his suffering. He slides the gun out of his pillow and places the point to his temple.

“Bang,” he whispers, cocking the gun at a certain angle.

He jolts forward when the door suddenly opens. He hides the gun back under his pillow just as Hisoka steps inside. He’s bringing a plastic bag, and he slowly settles himself on the edge of Chrollo’s bed. Chrollo can smell cooked rice wafting from the container. It eases the harsh beating of his heart back into place, but when Hisoka reaches for him, Chrollo backs away. His hands are shaking, and the smoke in his body is gurgling like acid in his chest.

He doesn’t want Hisoka to know just how scared he truly is.

“You didn’t eat today,” Hisoka says. “So, I bought you orange chicken.”

“I’m not hungry,” Chrollo says. His stomach feels empty, but when Chrollo glances inside, there are ghosts feeding off everything he’s swallowed. What’s the point of eating when he can’t even keep it in?

“Like heck, you’re not,” Hisoka growls. He pushes the container to Chrollo’s side. “Eat, Chrollo. Or I’ll push the damn thing down your throat.”

That’s the first time Chrollo has heard his name on Hisoka’s lips in days. He almost thinks that Hisoka has been purposefully avoiding from saying it out loud, so that when Chrollo is finally gone, Hisoka won’t have his name staining the shape of his mouth. Chrollo hesitantly opens the wrapper, and the steam blows through the tiny holes of the container. He grabs a fork and peels open the lid.

He stabs the fork against the chicken and takes a bite. The chicken doesn’t lodge in his throat, and when he swallows, his stomach finally takes the fall. Hisoka watches him quietly as he eats, settling himself comfortably on Chrollo’s mattress. If he feels the gun bulging against the pillow, he doesn’t say anything. But as Chrollo looks at the golden flecks of his eyes, at the moon kissing the height of his cheekbones, he wonders whether Hisoka already knows.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Chrollo asks. He shifts his body to face in Hisoka’s direction. He inserts another forkful of rice and chicken into his mouth before he continues. “Can you paint me?”

Hisoka glances at him and lets a tiny smile graze his face. “You know I can’t do that.”

“You can,” Chrollo insists. “I know you can.”

Hisoka stares at him for a few seconds before he looks away, trains his eyes on the blank wall. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I don’t know how.”

Chrollo wants to persuade him, but he knows that the more he tries to convince Hisoka, the more the man will never do it. He sets the container on the farthest side of the bed and scoots closer to Hisoka. He bends forward, catching Hisoka by the chin. He makes the man look at him, and when Hisoka’s golden eyes are branded on his face, every word rushes down to his chest.

“Why don’t you want to remember me?” Chrollo asks softly.

Hisoka keeps his lips pressed together, as if he’s afraid to even say a word. “No, but that’s the thing, see?” Hisoka says. His voice fans over Chrollo’s cheek. “If I paint you,” Hisoka murmurs, “you will only become a memory.”

 

~***~

 

Silva is still trying to get over the shock when he heads back inside. He traces the path of Illumi’s footsteps, stomping over them just in case there is still something lingering from his presence. But when he goes back to the dining room, the air is heavy like the whiff of a vacuum. He watches Milluki gather his brothers back to their rooms, sparing a glance at Silva’s direction.

His wife is sitting on a chair, staring at the dropped wineglass on the table. She fingers the curve of the glass until Silva sits down in front of her. She looks at him, her eyes tired and glassy. Silva can feel her distress pooling at her pupils, and when she speaks, her voice is furrowed together like misshaped words. Silva can’t hear anything but a murmur.

“What?” He leans closer to his wife.

Kikyo finally meets his eyes. “Do you think he’s guilty?”

That’s the kind of question Silva can’t bear to answer. He knows that his son has changed ever since Killua died, but they immediately assumed that Killua was murdered by someone else. Silva never thought of accusing his family of anything; in the Zoldycks, that is one of the rules. They can’t betray family members, unless absolutely needed. Illumi memorizes it by heart. But maybe that’s exactly why he murdered his brother – no one would think that he’d be the one holding the gun.

Silva shakes the thought away. “No,” he says tightly. “But the state does.”

Kikyo suddenly lurches forward. She covers Silva’s hand with hers. “We have to get him a lawyer,” she says. “Someone we know. Someone we can trust to let him off the hook.”

Silva can make a list of all the best attorneys in the city – like Howard, his colleague, the one who graduated at the top of his class; or Hamada, the asshole defense attorney he lost to in the last trial; or maybe even Fallon, the man who just transferred from the prosecutor side of the bench because he wanted to know the other version of the story. But these are people who don’t give a shit about their clients. One look at the people they’re working for, and they’ll immediately convince themselves that the people they’re defending are guilty. These are people who fight for absolutely nothing.

These are people he can’t bear his son to be represented. Even Silva thinks that Illumi can do a better job of protecting himself.

“I’ll do it,” Silva says. He turns Kikyo’s hand over and kisses her knuckles one by one. “I’ll defend him.”

Kikyo looks at him as if he is crazy. “You’re a prosecutor,” she says, snatching her hand back. She folds it on her lap. “Not a defense attorney. We need someone else.”

Silva curls his hand into a fist, trying to keep Kikyo’s warm from spreading to his wrist. “And what makes you think,” he says evenly, “that anyone else can do it for him?”

 

~***~

 

Illumi has been counting the seconds when morning finally comes. His eyes are wide open, staring at the lump on the ceiling. There are cobwebs sticking at the corners of the walls, and when Illumi looks close enough, he can memorize every single string that the spider has made. Illumi wonders what will happen when another becomes caught. He cranes his head he hears a jiggle against the bars of his cell.

“Hey, new kid,” the man on the other side says. He has no hair, but there is a beard hanging from his chin. On one portion of his face is a tattoo of a spider, spreading its ink across the length of his temples to the back of his head. “What are you here for?”

Illumi gets up and swallows. Will anyone hurt him if he doesn’t speak? “Murder,” he croaks out. “What about you?”

The man shrugs. “Rape. Who did you kill?”

Illumi shakes his head. “I didn’t kill anyone. It was a mistake.”

“Says you and the rest of the world.” The man turns back to his cell without another word.

Illumi’s heart is gnawing inside his chest, growing poison ivy until his bones are affected in the process. When he opens his mouth to breathe, another wad of smoke passes in between his teeth, choking him. He grasps his throat, inhaling large amounts of air until his lungs begin to function again. He is still trying to breathe when the correctional officer bangs at his cell.

“Your lawyer is here to see you,” he says. He unlocks the door and slides it open.

“My lawyer?” Illumi says slowly. “But I don’t have any.”

“Well, hey, if you want to stay here, that’s fine with me.” He shrugs, beginning to lock the gates again.

But Illumi rushes to his feet and lets the officer take him into another room. He heads inside, and he stops short. Sitting at one end of the table is his father, his arms crossed, his silver hair glimmering past his shoulders. The officer closes the door behind him, making it impossible to escape. Illumi hesitantly settles himself on the other seat, ducking his head so that he won’t have to see his father staring right at him.

“I thought I was going to see my lawyer,” Illumi says softly.

“You’re looking at him.”

Illumi’s head jerks up. “But you’re a prosecutor. Not a defense attorney.”

His father strains a smile. “That’s what your mother said, too.”

“You’ll be defending me?”

“Yes. I will.”

Illumi doesn’t know what else to say. When he looks at his father, it seems that Silva is caught in between holding himself back and coiling his arms around his son’s shoulders. Illumi clenches his hands into fists, so that he won’t be tempted to reach forward to his father, so that he won’t seek body contact with another person.

Silva leans forward, locking his fingers. “Illumi,” he says softly. “Tell me what happened.”

Illumi looks down at his lap again. He bites down on his lip, tries to get it to bleed so that he won’t have to say anything. But before he can stop himself, his mouth opens like a parchment, a gift. “Daddy,” he cries, his voice splitting in two. “He wanted to kill himself. He wanted to be happy.”

As soon as the words escape his throat, he curls like a vine on his seat, burying his face against the crook of his elbows. “I wanted him to be happy,” he says, his teeth cracking like secrets. “So, I did what was best.”

His father is quiet before his voice comes as comet trail. “What did you do? Illumi, what did you do?”

“I helped him,” Illumi sobs. “I helped him kill himself.”

Illumi doesn’t need to glance up to know that his father is also crying.

 

~***~

 

“What the fuck are you even doing?”

“Just fucking keep still already,” Hisoka grumbles. He presses his elbow against the portion below Machi’s knee to keep her legs steady. He clamps his hand over her ankle, preventing her from juggling her knees together. He jots down another doodle on the skin of her leg, making her yelp in surprise. Hisoka concentrates on gently digging the ballpoint against her skin, shading and coating the drawings he’s made while she’s complaining.

“Can you hurry it up?” Machi scowls. “It’s too ticklish.”

“Well, if you’d stopped moving, then maybe I’d be done by now.”

Hisoka is working on a twisting tornado. The curves are hallowed, and there is a sea dragon peeking from under the skewing waves. Its tail is going dangerously near the center of the spiral, and its jaws are wide open, unhinged and ready to swallow the tornado whole. Hisoka dots the tips of its teeth, making the fangs look like they’re bearing ashes. He rubs a portion of his thumb against the cadavers of the wind, erasing it, acting as if it has never existed.

He glances up to find Machi staring at him. Her eyes follow down to the path of his fingers, draped carelessly on her leg. Hisoka can feel his fingertips boiling. He slowly trails his fingers to her bottom thigh, and he sees her chest heave against her loose shirt. His fingers start to shake when he reaches the poke of her tiny birthmark swelling on her skin. His own hand is burning, singed with flames. Even when he pulls his hand back, his palm still bears a rain forest, and her name is branded on every tree.

Even when he’s pulled his hand back, his heart doesn’t seem to want to stop its harsh beating.

Machi bends forward to check out what he’s drawn on her leg. Her shirt comes forward, showing him a peek of her cleavage. Hisoka swallows hard, staring at the ivory color of her skin. But he tugs her shirt backward, so that the fabric is covering her chest. Machi points at the sea dragon, her eyebrows furrowed.

“What does this mean?”

Hisoka shrugs. “It can mean anything. It’s up to you to see it as whatever you want it to.”

“It looks kind of scary.”

Hisoka laughs, throaty and unsure. “I think that’s kind of the point.”

Machi stares at him before shaking her head. She pushes herself closer to his body, slowly lifting her knees to rest her chin. Hisoka settles his cheek on her arm, closing his eyes. Her fingers are strewn over his hair, brushing the strands away from his forehead. He can feel the sunlight kissing his back like a flower stem, but his chest is curling together until it feels like the moon has fit itself in its branches. It can’t seem to find out whether he truly belongs there.

“Machi,” a voice calls. “What’s that on your leg?”

Hisoka doesn’t need to open his eyes to know whom the voice belongs to. Even when he’s lying on the sheets, he knows exactly the numbers of its beats. Even when the noise is loud enough to grumble his chest, he can hear that voice anywhere. It sounds like a thunder beat, like a falcon in between his teeth. It smells like smoke because it always suffocates his throat.

“Hisoka made it, boss,” Machi says, shooting a glance at him. “Apparently, he thinks I’m his new canvas now.”

Hisoka laughs and finally lifts his head. He looks at Chrollo, purposefully avoiding the dark circles planked under his eyes. “My sketchbook was full,” he says, shrugging. “I didn’t have time to buy a new one.”

Chrollo nods tightly. He pulls back his sleeve to reveal a drag of white scars stranded on his arm. Hisoka thinks of it as islands, and that’s when he realizes that he doesn’t have to swim to fully drown in something. He only needs to know that he’s a bleeding ship.

“Can you draw on me?” Chrollo asks. His eyes falter when Hisoka doesn’t meet his gaze. Hisoka can feel the disappointment rolling off of him like an ocean crest. He clenches his hands, making sure that no one sees just how much they’re trembling.  

“I can’t,” Hisoka says, looking away. “You know that.”

The silence quivers over them until the ceiling looks like it’s collapsing. Machi starts to drag herself away, but Hisoka grabs her wrist before she can go anywhere. He tightens his hold, urging her not to go. There is something dangerous about holding on to a lifeline. _I can’t keep,_ Hisoka thinks, _what has never been mine._

Chrollo nods quietly and begins to take his leave, glancing back at Hisoka one more time before he returns to his original station – at the corner of the building, where the palm trees are gliding the sun’s wave unto his cheeks; where the light always seems to hit him on the neck, like it knows exactly how to soak up his breath.

Machi visibly relaxes when Hisoka lets go of her wrist. She leans closer to his face, hissing her words out. “What was that for?” she demands. “He only wanted you to draw on him. What’s the big deal?”

Hisoka wants to say that she just doesn’t understand, but once the words are out, she’ll push for more. At the moment, Hisoka is the only person who knows what Chrollo is planning, and Hisoka isn’t sure whether the troupe is ready to let that thought sink in. There has always been so terrifying about seeing someone bleed, especially when the man has been a bruise – it swells in the deepest parts of you.

Hisoka shakes his head. “I can’t draw him,” he says. “Not even if I want to.”

“Well, why not?”

A smile slips on his mouth like a dead sea. “You can’t paint on a canvas that’s not empty.”

 

~***~

 

Kaede Ito has been in several arraignments, most of which are incredibly boring. Judge Puckett is banging on his gravel, gesturing the clerk to read the next case. The prosecutor stands up, watching the clerk head to the front and bring out a piece of paper. Kaede is not surprised when she sees Silva Zoldyck at the defense table – although the man is not a defense attorney at all, she knows that he still has a chance of winning this case. After all, his very son is on the edge of the cliff.

The clerk reads, “ _The state of Kukuroo VS Illumi Zoldyck_. Grand Jury 8970 handed down an indictment on September 13, 2014, on a count of murder in the first degree. Illumi Zoldyck is charged with willfully, knowingly, and deliberately shooting Killua Zoldyck and causing his death.”

Kaede looks at Illumi on the other side, his long hair tied to a ponytail. He bears an oddly calm expression, but his eyes are what scare Kaede the most. She has never seen something so void and empty, as if the demons he has are gathered in that one part of his body. Beside him, Silva looks fierce and determined, ready to take his son off the case. But Kaede Ito will not let that become possible, not even when she’s going against one of the best lawyers in the whole damn country.

The judge is staring at Illumi, his looming eyes taking in the young teenager’s collected expression. “Mr. Zoldyck, how do you plead?”

Illumi Zoldyck’s throat bobs up and down. “Not guilty.”

“Does the state wish to be heard on bail?”

Immediately, Kaede Ito speaks up. “Your Honor,” she says. “Considering the severity of the charge, we ask that Illumi Zoldyck will be held without bail.”

“Your Honor,” Silva argues, “my son – my client – is a good student. He’s well respected in the family, and he’s a good student. He holds no harm to anyone, especially not in this family.”

“Your Honor,” Kaede continues evenly, “Illumi Zoldyck certainly bears a flight-risk in this case. This is a murder in the first-degree. I ask you to not grant him bail.”

Judge Puckett turns to Silva. “Mr. Zoldyck?”

Silva grits his teeth. “My client deserves to stay at home for the duration of the trail, Your Honor. He brings no harm to anyone.”

“Your Honor,” Kaede says, “Illumi Zoldyck has already killed his brother. What makes us so sure that he won’t murder another member of his family?”

Kaede memorizes the moment Silva swerves his head in her direction, shock and disgust evident on his features.

Judge Puckett closes his eyes and releases a long sigh. “All right, Counselors. Save it for the trial. I will not grant bail to Illumi Zoldyck, considering that this a murder charge. Next case!” He bangs on his gravel again as the crowd disperses.

Kaede gathers her things, but just before she leaves the courtroom, she glances back at Illumi Zoldyck. She hides her surprise at the back of her teeth, unsure how to handle a defendant who knows exactly what will happen.

 

~***~

 

As his son is being taken away, Silva can’t bear to watch him go. He knows that Illumi’s wrists are rattling so wildly because he can hear the sound of the handcuffs wiggling. He also knows that Illumi is afraid, because he can feel his own heart thrum with a nervous beat. There’s little he can do at the moment, and he feels so damn small in this big courtroom.

He grabs his briefcase and heads outside to meet his wife at the corridors. Kikyo is stomping her feet over the granite tiles, her face chalky white. She swivels toward him, her arms crossed. “Why,” she says tightly, “couldn’t you do anything? You should have worked harder to grant him bail!”

Her voice echoes through the hall, attracting the attention of the people nearby. Silva keeps his chin steady, even though his jaw is already locked tight. A muscles tics on his face as he tries to stay composed. “You know how these kinds of arraignments work, Kikyo. Judges don’t grant bail when it comes to first degree murder.”

Kikyo presses a finger to her temple, closing her eyes. “We should get him a _real_ defense lawyer, Silva. This isn’t a prosecutor vs. prosecutor trial.”

Even when he knows that his wife is only telling the truth, something stabs at his gut – something so sharp that it leaves him with a mark. It’s already bothering him that he’s going against a prosecutor he has no information of, but knowing that his own wife is questioning his abilities is making his bones shudder with anger. Silva grips his briefcase harder. He nods quietly, setting his jaw.

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m not a defense lawyer. But I’m his father.”

Before Kikyo can reply, Silva is already sprinting to his car. But a herd of reporters are gathered at his Mercedes, making it impossible to push them all away and get away safe. They’re pushing their microphones toward his lips.

“Mr. Zoldyck, how do you feel about this trial? Do you think you will win?”

Silva strains a smile. “It’s a bit too early to know, but I’m sure there’s at least a 99 percent chance.”

The reporter laughs. “How is your son taking this?”

“He knows what will happen,” Silva says. “He’s very calm about this. I am his lawyer, after all.”

The reporter nods in response, but by now, Silva’s anger has boiled down to his knees.

Silva pushes past them and into his vehicle, already turning on the engine. The reporters are still knocking their microphones against the windows, but Silva is driving out of the curb. He doesn’t bother to glance back at Kikyo, who has driven with him this morning in the car. He doesn’t bother to look at the city jail, where his son’s presence is looming over like a chain.

 

~***~

 

Chrollo can feel the ghosts biting beneath the soles of his feet in the cemetery.

The moon is perched high, peeking over the skyscrapers. The clouds are brushing against it with their smoky fingers. Chrollo cranes his neck and lets the moonlight stroke the curved line of his throat, the bridge of his neck, the track of his collarbones. He twists his body to the side and finds himself looking at Hisoka, his red hair whorled like a volt on his head, his eyes absolutely golden.

He settles himself beside Chrollo, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Tell me again,” he says, “why we’re hanging out in a cemetery.”

There are gravestones surrounded them, their names dim against the slab. Chrollo picks a handful of grass and sprinkles them over their face. “Because I’m calm here,” he says. “Like we’re the only ones who are living.”

Hisoka smiles a little. “How ironic.”

Chrollo spots a dandelion growing in between Hisoka’s knees. He plucks the stem and blows it. The petals emerge from their roots and begin to breeze away. Chrollo watches them kiss the wind like lost lovers, letting it take them away to another destination. He wishes that it were that easy to disappear, so that when he’s finally gone, they would realize that he has never belonged here.

“Why?” Hisoka asks suddenly. His hands are strung together, his fingers gripped tight.

“Why what?”

“Why do you keep thinking about it?” Hisoka whispers. “Why can’t you stop?”

Chrollo draws back slightly, taking in the darkness that has ripped apart Hisoka’s features, making him almost unrecognizable. This is not the man who has made it a job to avoid his feelings. This is not the same man who always seems to pretend that he’s not feeling anything. This is a crack in the silver lining, but this is the same person he has loved all these years.

When Chrollo rests his hand on Hisoka’s knee, he wonders how the man always knows what he’s thinking, as if there’s a link between them he can’t see.

“Because,” he says, “it’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

“Sometimes,” Hisoka croaks out, “I smell smoke in my room. What will happen to me when that goes away, too?”

Chrollo swallows the lump down his throat. “Hisoka, paint me. Please. I just want you to paint me.”

Hisoka wildly shakes his head. “I can’t do that. You _know_ I can’t do that.”

“You can,” Chrollo insists. “Just do it before the end of the year. It doesn’t have to fit your standards.”

Hisoka yanks his knee away, coiling away from Chrollo. “It’s not about fitting my standards! It’s not about the time.”

“Then, what is it about?” Chrollo demands. “Tell me!”

“I already did,” Hisoka says. “But each time, you refuse to listen.” The silence breaks over them before Hisoka gets to his feet. He brushes the grass off his jeans and begins to head over to the exit, leaving Chrollo behind him.

Chrollo watches the span of Hisoka’s back before his body only becomes a shadow. He looks down at the patch of grass beneath him, silently willing Hisoka not to go. “Stay,” he whispers. He closes his eyes and traps his head in between his knees.

At that moment, he finally realizes why Hisoka can’t bear to paint him.

 

~***~

 

Staying in jail is no different from going home. There’s a lingering silence in between the walls that keeps on knocking on his bones. There is the sound of someone crying, of a ghost pounding against the cell bars. The officers tell him when to shower and when to eat, as if making decisions has ceased to become something that belongs to him. But then, there is also the putrid smell of smoke.

The vomit of the floor has already been cleaned, and his sheets are arranged neatly. When he settles himself on the bed, his skin almost sheds from his muscles. The metal grates from underneath his weight. He has to ignore the screeching when he lays his head down on the thin pillow. He stares at the ceiling because there’s nothing else he can do. When he closes his eyes, there is a name branded on his eyelids that he can’t put together.

His nose is throbbing, sensing another wave of smoke curl into the air. He knows that in jail, they’re not allowed to smoke or do drugs. They’re not allowed to do much of anything. But unless there is someone in another smell taking a cigarette, there’s no reason for his own cell to smell like one.

Illumi wrenches upward, framing his face with his hands. The stench has already nestled in between his lungs, wreathing like serpents. An officer rattles his cell bars, grabbing his attention.

It’s the same officer who’s taken him into the jail. “What’s wrong, kid? You have a headache?”

Illumi shakes his head. “Is someone smoking here?”

The officer blinks. “You’re not allowed to smoke in here. Why? You smell something?”

Illumi nods, his throat thickening. “I feel like there’s a cigarette burning in here.”

“I doubt the cigarette will last that long. I’ll go check.”

The officer opens the bars and slides himself in. He flips over Illumi’s sheets and pillow, checking under the bed. He peers in the darkest corners of the jail cell, but his expression says that he sees nothing. “Maybe just your imagination, kid. Are you sure you don’t take any medication?”

“I’m sure,” Illumi sighs. “Thank you.”

The officer nods and exits the jail cell, locking it again. Illumi’s body twists to the floor. His head is whirling, and there are cigarette ashes burning at his throat. When he rubs his tongue over his teeth, there is a residual coating of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like it. :) Please review if you have anything to say about the chapter, thank you. ~


	29. Talk

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

December 2013

 

 

Professor Wing has admired only one dark painting in his life – The Starry Night Over the Rhone by Van Gogh. The use of the colors is surreal, almost to the point that it makes his stomach churn like a windmill. The white and yellow blend of the stars makes the hair on his arms singe. The sea and sky is fusing together like lost lovers, reaching their colors out until their fingers stay firmly clasped. The stars are reflecting on the water like iced meteorites. There is a boat bleeding out its colors like a scar, but the mangling of the sea makes it impossible to disfigure the other. The two people at the dock are painted like shadows.

There is simply something about that painting that stands out. Professor Wing has always admired Van Gogh for his paintings; the vast complexity and the distinct features of each color impress him as an artist himself. But that doesn’t mean that he thinks Van Gogh’s paintings are the most unique. He has seen his students imitate his art form. He has seen other people plaster their paintings on the wall, visibly making Professor Wing shudder.

But there is one other painter that he truly admires, that he genuinely thinks no one can ever compare – and that is Hisoka.

There’s no doubt that Hisoka’s fingers are sculpted specifically for this reason. He has seen the man work in front of an easel. He has seen Hisoka absentmindedly sketch on paper, as if his hands are the only things that need to do all the work, as if his bones could simply swallow the imagination in his head and do his magic for him. Professor Wing has never doubted Hisoka’s talent, although he’s rather skeptical that the man has not been eaten up by his own paintings.

Professor Wing has kept track of Hisoka’s improvements over the years while Hisoka is his student. The first few paintings have always been glinting with gold; autumn chambers and yellow lips dancing across the canvas like chandeliers. There has been the significance of open palm trees, of sunsets furrowing in the cavern of his chest, of wide lipped suns kissing the ribcage of his very own portrait.

But the colors started to grow darker. From the original perspective of gold, the shades turned into violet. It reminded Professor Wing of winter, where the road was dimly lit by streetlamps, but he couldn’t find his own footprints on the path.

Slowly, Hisoka’s paintings turned obscure, tainted with shadows until Wing could no longer tell the difference between the dark smidge of the colors. But it made his bones quake until his mind starts chattering, until his teeth have to be clamped shut to keep from exploding. There is something about Hisoka’s paintings that has drawn him – the skulls disconnecting from the neck, the teeth made of cigarette ashes, the bones turning pale like chalked skin, the eye sockets void and absolutely empty, as if just asking to be filled.

Professor Wing once dared to Hisoka about it, but the moment the man’s head turned toward him, he couldn’t bear to open his mouth. Hisoka’s golden eyes are always guarded, as if any breach will push him over the edge of the cliff.

He realizes, looking at the painting now, that Hisoka has already fallen – and it’s because he has refused to let anybody catch him.

 

~***~

 

Milluki has never seen his brother look this miserable. Illumi is usually stoic, with his face strangled tight until the moment a crack comes to the surface. But the moment Milluki saw the dark circles pooling under his eyes, the pale skin that has been scrubbed raw with pain, the shadowed hue of his eyes that gold once replaced – Milluki immediately knew that something was wrong with him.

Illumi has always avoided family interaction, but now his silence on the dinner table inks its way through Milluki’s skin down to his veins, reminding him that his brother has never been okay in the first place. Illumi leaves the minute he finishes his meal. He refuses to talk to his father, who has been trying to get through Illumi’s barriers. Silva asked Milluki to do it for him because Illumi absolutely refuses to connect.

This is when he notices his mother’s sudden lack of contact. Kikyo Zoldyck can’t look at her son in the eye for more than three seconds, as if staring at him for a moment longer would make her entire body burn. She no longer invites Illumi to her galas, to her parties, to the current court cases she’s working on. She doesn’t greet Illumi at the dinner table, nor does she even register his presence.

With his mother now hopped off his back, Illumi has been doing a good job of willowing himself so small that Milluki has to struggle to find him. Illumi has hid himself in the attic, counting the cards stacked on the wooden chest. Illumi has busied himself in the kitchen with a butter knife, but when Milluki glanced at the tip, he wondered whether he should do something before anything wrong happened. Milluki has also found him in the farthest portions of the library, where ratty books rested on the shelves, where their spines were split open like promises. It reminded him of the way Illumi was built.

Now, Illumi is sitting in Killua’s old bedroom, where the cabinets are coated with cobwebs, where the bed still has a rotting mattress, where the carpet is dimmed and yellowed. Milluki settles down next to him on the floor, ignoring the way his brother is staring absentmindedly at the floor. Milluki wishes that he hasn’t been seeing a ghost all along.

Illumi takes a glance at Milluki’s face before his eyes finally settle on the wooden floorboards. He brushes his hand against the brims of the carpet. When he lifts his hand to his face, Milluki sees a layer of dust plastered on Illumi’s palm. His brother wipes the dirt against his jeans, the color of his eyes fading to the curl of his eyelashes.

“I hate this room,” Milluki says. “I hate that it’s empty.”

Illumi doesn’t answer.

“And I hate that mother never asks the maids to clean it. It smells like rats.”

Illumi stays silent, but Milluki can see a tiny nod of his head.

“Do you know what else I hate?” Milluki says, licking his lips, his throat suddenly constricting.

His brother finally looks at him. There is a tiredness to his face that keeps Milluki from faltering, that makes every word burst out of his lips before he can do anything to stop himself.

“What?” Illumi croaks out. “What else do you hate?”

“I hate that . . .” Milluki swallows. “I hate that you still love him so much that you’re always searching for the pieces you lost.”

Illumi’s eyes snap with color, surprised at Milluki’s sudden confession. His body wriggles, and he sits up to be more comfortable. Milluki finds himself blushing at the sentence he’s released from his chest, as if it’s one of the secrets Illumi isn’t supposed to know just yet. His brother twists in his place, but his arms struggle to keep himself upright. Illumi’s fingers look like white roots, with his knuckles sticking out from their sockets. Milluki realizes for the first time this week that Illumi hasn’t been playing his music.

Milluki takes in the weak bend of his spine. His throat stays parched in his neck. “You should call him, you know. I know that you haven’t been visiting him lately.”

Illumi stares at him, unmoving. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not blind, Illumi. I know that you fought with Hisoka.”

Although, Milluki doesn’t have proof to back up his statement. But the rattling chains have started to pound again against the walls. Milluki can hear the wails of the moon gravelling against his windows. When he tries to sleep, his bed shakes. He wakes up in the morning to find smoke curling against the ceiling, and the scent leads to where Illumi is staying, as if he has swallowed every cigarette he needs.

The silence heaves out of the room.

Illumi stares at Milluki, his eyes blithely gray against the dim lighting. “He found me,” he says softly. “He found me, but I lost him too easily.”

Milluki doesn’t need to ask his brother to explain further; he already knows that Illumi is not going to answer.

“Then, go home,” he whispers. “You know where that is.”

Illumi simply ducks his head, a sad smile touching his lips.

The two brothers no longer need to say anything.

 

~***~

 

“Check.”

Hisoka switches his attention from the window to the chessboard in front of him. His eyes glaze over Machi’s face, taking in the slope of her nose, the red sting of her cheeks, the perfect lace of her lips. When she catches him looking, Hisoka moves his eyes back to the board, inspecting the new formation of Machi’s chess pieces. Her queen is preparing to attack his king, but she has no backup pawns or towers or bishops to guard her current weapon.

Hisoka moves his white bishop in front of his king and nods at Machi.

She leans forward, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

They haven’t been talking about what happened three nights prior. Hisoka woke up to an empty bed, and he found himself searching for every piece of her under the sheets, just in case he could gather enough of Machi to prevent himself from leering. He knew even before then that Machi would ignore everything completely. After all, she still doesn’t know where she stands with Hisoka, even though he made it perfectly clear the night before.

Even until now, he can still feel Machi’s back muscles breathing against his palm. He can still taste her in between the spaces of his teeth, as if she made a home where he can’t see. He can still smell her skin lingering at the flips of his collar. Even when he scrubs his skin raw, her scent stays in the crook of his elbow. He hasn’t replaced his sheets since.

“Hisoka,” Machi calls. “Your turn.”

This time, Machi’s knight has slid forward, placing itself near the queen for protection. If Hisoka eats her queen with his bishop, his own bishop will also be taken away. But he has always known that chess is about strategy and sacrifice, looking for the best move to deceit the opponent and win. Hisoka takes Machi’s queen with his bishop, and Machi purses his lips.

“Just perfect,” she mutters. “You told me you haven’t played this game in years.”

“I haven’t,” Hisoka promises. “The last was . . .”

Before he can continue, something pricks the back of his head like a needle. It moves like a stingray, passing through his temples until he has to lurch forward to keep the pain from spreading any further. He gathers his head in his hands, his forehead throbbing like he’s been hit in the jaw. He closes his eyes when his vision turns into a bleary static, the rigid lines flashing against his eyelids.

He can feel Machi placing an arm over his shoulder, letting him rest against her weight. He can feel her heartbeat rapidly thumping against the fabric of his shirt. Her arms are shaking around his body, enveloping his head with her fingers. She presses the tips against his temples to ease the pain. Immediately, Hisoka’s body rests against hers.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “It’s just a headache.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “A headache that has been going on for a week.”

Hisoka doesn’t say anything, not when he knows that it’s been two years straight since this has been happening. “Just remind me to buy medicine.”

Machi glances down at him. “You’re going to waste your money. I know you won’t take the thing, anyway.”

Hisoka grins wide. “Come on, I’m doing this for you.”

She stares at him for a moment longer, the frost in her eyes dampening like rain. “Don’t,” she says softly. “Just don’t, Hisoka. Please.”

Hisoka tries to keep his smile steady, but he knows that even Machi can see that he’s lying through his teeth. “Even after all this time,” he says, his voice chilled, “you still don’t get it.”

He moves away from her the moment there’s a knock on the door. He swings his head to the side, scowling. “Come in,” he grumbles out. “Just come in, I don’t give a single damn.”

Hisoka gets on his feet when the door sways open. Illumi Zoldyck enters the room, peeking behind his curtain of hair. Hisoka finds himself reeling back. His knees are wobbling uncontrollably, and there seems to a fist stuck in the hole of his chest where Illumi once fit himself. Hisoka gaps his ribcage to breathe more easily because Illumi has always been stealing his oxygen.

“Hisoka,” Illumi whispers, voice low, “may I come inside?”

He swallows thickly. “You’re already inside.”

“Oh.” Illumi looks down at his feet, surprised to find himself standing there. “Oh.”

Hisoka takes in the shadow papered on his skin, right under his eyes. He memorizes the paler skin, the shaking fingers, the uneasy breathing. His head subconsciously turns to where Machi was sitting, but the spot is already empty. He covers his face with his hand, wondering how people could leave him so easily.

 

~***~

 

Illumi’s throat is wound so tight that it feels like a chasm. He’s sitting on the couch while Hisoka cleans up. He watches Hisoka’s sleek fingers gather the chess pieces into the chessboard, his bones quivering as they curl over the shape of the king. He clasps the chessboard shut and places it near the easels of paint. Despite the distance, Illumi can see Hisoka’s skin smeared with pink paint – the exact color of Machi’s hair.

Illumi can’t stop staring at them.

Hisoka finally props himself on the stool near his easels of paint. He stares at Illumi like he can’t quite understand what’s happening. His hair is tousled carelessly, and his face is unnaturally pale, as if he’s trying to focus on simply getting Illumi out of here. Hisoka licks his chapped lips and breathes shakily.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice heavily guarded. Illumi can’t seem to break his way through it.

“I wanted to clear things up,” he says. He clears his throat. “I left your apartment before I could explain properly.”

“There’s nothing to explain. I already know what’s going on.”

Illumi lifts an eyebrow. “Do you really?”

Hisoka tugs at his collar, and Illumi can see a trickle of sweat on the side of his neck. His eyes are misted over like fog banks. It seems as if he’s concentrating too hard to keep his eyes open. “No,” he admits. “I don’t. But there’s nothing to explain, Illumi.”

“There’s nothing to explain?” Illumi repeats. He crosses his leg over the other, feeling Hisoka mentally back away at the movement. “Or you don’t want to hear it?”

Hisoka hardens his jaw. “What can you possibly say,” he whispers, “to change what already happened?”

Illumi scoots to the edge of the couch, wanting to reach for Hisoka before the man clouds over. But he knows that if he gets too close, Hisoka will fold himself into two, and Illumi knows that this man is not someone he can easily lose. “Killua was my brother,” he says softly. “He died when he was only fifteen. He was . . . restricted, controlled by our family.”

“Like you,” Hisoka says. His voice is still stitched tight. His fingers are visibly shaking against his knees. He clenches them into fists, but by now even his elbows can’t stop quivering. “He was like you.”

“Yes,” Illumi says. “But unlike me, he fought for it. He wanted his freedom. But our mother would never give it to him, so he killed himself.”

Something in his statement must have made Hisoka snap open like a willowed branch. His eyes stay unfocused on Illumi’s face, and his body has gone limp. There is an ocean inside him that has been bleeding, but Hisoka has always been a wrecked ship. He has already started to sink before Illumi can even reach him.

“He killed himself,” he repeats. “Your brother killed himself.”

Illumi nods. “My mother thought that bringing my brother into our relationship would turn the tides,” he says quietly. “And she was right.” He suddenly lifts himself to his feet, striding across the room before Hisoka can run away from him. He captures Hisoka’s cheek in his palm, ignoring the way Hisoka has gone stiff with his presence. “But Hisoka, I don’t want her to be right. Not with this. Not with you.”

Hisoka stares up at him. Illumi realizes for the first time that Hisoka’s skin is flaming.

“You don’t know what you want,” Hisoka says. “You _love_ him.”

Illumi grits his teeth together as a muscle tics in his jaw. “I do,” he says tightly. “I do love him, because he’s my brother. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t love you more.”

Hisoka’s head twitches up in surprise. The blockage in his eyes has been breached, making it possible for Illumi to fit himself in Hisoka again. Illumi places both of his hands on Hisoka’s shoulders, and he slowly leans in to kiss Hisoka on the lips. The man connects the spaces between them with his breath, and their mouths scrape together like bruised skin. Even the curves of Hisoka’s lips are heated.

When they pull apart, Illumi looks at the tiny gap between them. “Hisoka,” he says. “What you said last week – was that true?”

Hisoka doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You know that I’ve never lied to you.” His voice is rough and shredded into bits, so that Illumi can still taste it when they kiss.

“I still have to go home.” Illumi hesitates. “Will you call me?”

“Yes,” Hisoka says. “Of course.”

Illumi nods, and he begins to take his leave, glancing back at Hisoka before he closes the door. Something ignites in the span of his ribcage, and he leans his head against the doorframe. He can’t stop the coarse hammering of his chest, and he can feel Hisoka inching its way to his heart, as if Illumi’s body is made specifically for him.

But what if Illumi doesn’t have enough space?

 

~***~

 

Machi counts the number of footsteps Illumi has gone down the stairs before she makes a run for Hisoka’s apartment. There is a certain panic brewing inside her that she can’t explain. The fear bubbles up to her throat when she clasps her hand around the doorknob. She pushes the door open, only to find Hisoka lying girded on the floor. Her bones are wailing like sirens as soon as she tucks Hisoka’s limp head on her lap.

There is blood retched on the floor, the same texture found at the corner of his mouth. She wipes the blood away with her thumb, her breaths coming in short breaks. Her chest is swelling with pain, and she slowly flattens her hand on Hisoka’s forehead. “No,” she whispers. “No, you’re heating up. No, no, no.”

She tries to haul Hisoka over her shoulders, but he’s too heavy for her to carry. Instead, she hurriedly pulls the mattress of his bed into the living room, rolling Hisoka on top. Beads of sweat are kissing his temples, and even his neck is sticky with the substance. She uses her handkerchief to wipe the sweat away. Machi checks her phone in her pockets, and realizes too late that she’s left it in her own apartment. She drapes the handkerchief against his collarbones and begins to swerve to the door

But before she can even stand up, Hisoka’s hand clasps over her desperately. He tugs her back, his eyes still lidded. “Don’t go,” he whispers. “ _Please_.”

The splinter in his voice makes her whole body shudder. She grasps for him, as if that simple act will keep him awake. But she can feel his presence fading like a ghost, and her heart is now crawling its way up her throat.

“If I don’t,” Machi says, her breath hitching, “you’re just going to get more sick.”

“You think I care about that?” Hisoka chuckles softly. He suddenly wrenches to his side, coughing roughly. Another few drops of blood mat the corners of his mouth and teeth. Machi takes one look at his face before her chest begins to shrink.

“For once,” Machi begs, “just let me be what you need.”

“Well,” he rasps out, “who said that you weren’t?”

Before she can come up with a comeback, Hisoka has drifted off to sleep once again. His hold on her hand goes weak, and his arm falls to the floor. She waits a few more seconds before she rushes to her apartment and runs back to his side again. She calls the first person on her speed dial, hoping that she’s not making a mistake. “Please,” she gasps. “Please help me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like this chapter. Please review if you want to say anything. :)


	30. This Love

Chapter Thirty

 

December 2013

 

 

Machi has never had to take care of other people before. The troupe can handle themselves on their own, so Machi will only have to mind her own business, as long as they do the same. Phinks can do whatever the hell he wants with his drinking problem, and Feitan can join that perilous road down. Franklin doesn’t need to stand on top of a building to know just how high he is, and Pakunoda can indulge herself in guns all she wants. It’s not Machi’s job to make sure that the troupe is still stable.

A spider doesn’t need all eight legs to live. This is no different.

But Hisoka is a special case. Whenever Hisoka desperately tugs on the string that’s connecting them, Machi follows him like a current. Her bones will naturally navigate themselves to his chest, so that she’s there when he’s about to break his ribcage open. She fits herself solidly at the backs of his knees, just in case his bones pierce like a shutter, and he starts falling.

Machi will latch on to his wings, even if he absolutely doesn’t want anyone to touch them.

She has already transferred Hisoka to his room, where she has closed all the windows. He’s breathing unsteadily on the mattress, sweat trailing down his skin like an iced pathway. His skin has gotten ghastly, and he glows under the paper light of the moon. Machi closes the curtains and turns on the lights, swallowing when Hisoka’s body becomes clearer.

Machi has unbuttoned his shirt, letting his bare chest peek from the fabric. Even his stomach is heavily sweating. Machi doesn’t know what else to do. She’s already cooked him dinner, but he refuses to eat. When she insisted to take a sip of the soup, his throat croaked until he spat out the liquid back into the bowl. Machi stared at the blood soiled against the lip of the plate, and her eyes ventured to Hisoka’s lips, where the corners are dabbed with blood again.

It looks like even his name is bleeding.

Now, Machi is bending over the bed, staring at him. Her eyes swift over the side of his neck, the white of his eyelids, the sweating pores of his forehead. She settles her gaze on his face, like he’s going away at any moment – and she won’t be able to stop him. Hisoka stirs his head to the side, heavily fluttering his eyes open. A smile cracks over his lips.

“Can’t stop staring at me, can you?”

Machi sets her jaw. “How are you still joking at a time like this?”

“I have to lighten up the mood, or you’re going to kill me before I even get better.”

The sentence Machi wants to say is sliding like a parchment right on the tip of her tongue: _But what if you_ don’t?

Machi places a hand over his cheek, feeling a wobbly breath spread over his teeth. She rubs her thumb over his jaw, and his chest shivers from the contact. She leans closer to him, preparing her heart for the impact that’s about to come. But the moment the secret on her lips lands on the corner of his mouth, there’s a knock on the door. Hisoka slips one eye open and smiles shakily.

“Maybe this is a sign,” Hisoka says, her breath clattering against his lips. “Maybe this is why you shouldn’t be with me.”

“What are you talking about?” Machi says slowly.

Hisoka stares at her before he presses his cheek against his pillow, his golden eyes falling on a spot on her elbow. “You shouldn’t be with someone like me.”

Machi lets a smile falter over her mouth until she’s sure that her teeth will break over the size of his name. Her heart is pleated so tight that her hands are shaking. When she looks at them, she can see his words planted on his skin.

“But what if,” she whispers, “neither of us can stay away?”

 

~***~

 

As Machi exits the room and answers the door, Hisoka forces himself to sit up. His back is throbbing like a paperweight against the stretched portion of his spine. There is a meandering pain gathering at the creases of his eyebrows, and he has to bend forward to prevent his heart from leaping out of his ribcage. His eyebrows are mussed together as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

He searches for Illumi’s number, even though he has the digits memorized at the centerfold of his teeth. He listens to the dial tone and closes his eyes, imagining Illumi pick up the line. There is a rustle, and a deep voice ferreting through the speaker. Illumi’s voice pops in like a knuckle brushing against the side of his jaw. He pictures Illumi’s wispy fingers curling around the back of his neck, and his own voice stops at the pit of his throat, where Illumi’s name has already made a home.

“Hisoka,” Illumi breathes, “hey.”

“Be with me.”

Illumi pauses. “What?”

“Be with me,” Hisoka repeats. “Tomorrow. Be with me tomorrow.”

“At your apartment . . .?”

Hisoka shakes his head, even though Illumi can’t see him. He looks at his fingers, furled against the sheets. He lifts his hand to his lap, wondering whether Illumi can sense him moving, wondering whether Illumi is doing the same thing. “No,” he says. “There’s a carnival opening up tomorrow near the park. Be with me.”

Illumi’s breathing picks up at the receiver, and Hisoka presses the phone closer to his ear, wishing that Illumi’s words could fall against his lips even when the man is not here.

“Illumi?” Hisoka calls. “Did I lose you?”

“No,” he answers softly. “Never.”

“Will you be with me tomorrow, Illumi?”

Hisoka can imagine Illumi resisting a smile on the other end. He leans against the headboard, watching the crescent moon shy away from the lights of the city, but Hisoka reaches for it, clasps it in his palm until he’s the only one who could hear what the moon is saying.

“What time do you need me?” Illumi asks.

“Every minute,” Hisoka says. “Every second. I need your words on my lips until you’re the one kissing me.” He closes his eyes and opens them again. “Meet me at the train station at nine o’clock.”

“Okay,” Illumi whispers. “Okay.”

“Say anything, Illumi,” he says. “Say anything before you hang up.”

Illumi is silent for a few seconds before his voice comes like a wave against his cheek. Hisoka rolls to his side, stretching his arm across the length of the bed until the moon is swimming on his fingertips.

“I’m looking at the moon tonight,” he says. “I wish it’s the sun.”

“But the sun is blinding. You can’t stare at it without getting eye cancer.”

Illumi laughs softly, and it lands on the plane of Hisoka’s chest. “No, it’s beautiful. It looks like you.”

Hisoka lets his arm go limp against the mattress, and he blinks at the veins nestled under the skin of his arm. The moon is tracing it all the way to his heart.

“Is that why,” he says, “you tore me in half?”

“Hisoka? – ”

He presses the end button before Illumi could even finish his sentence. He retrieves his hand from the empty corner of the bed, clutching it tightly against his chest. For a moment, it almost felt like the ghost of _his_ name has escaped his lips, even when he hasn’t strung the letters together ever since _he_ left him.

 

~***~

 

Machi already knows who’s knocking on the door of Hisoka’s apartment. After all, she was the one who called him. She swings the door open to find Phinks scowling down at the floor, where Hisoka has drawn a dick near the welcome sign. He looks up at Machi and sighs, pushing forward the plastic of medicine she asked him to bring.

“Here it is,” he grumbles. “A bottle of aspirin, as you requested.”

Machi gratefully accepts it. “Thanks. I’m going to pay you tomorrow, I promise.”

Phinks shrugs. “No need.” He peers around the room. “So, where’s he staying?”

“In his bedroom. He’s sleeping.”

“So, he just fainted? Just like that?”

Machi inhales heavily. “And coughed up blood, yeah.”

Phinks nods, shuffling his shoes. “You know,” he says slowly, “you don’t have to take care of him. He’s twenty-one, he doesn’t need a babysitter or a nanny to know what’s right for him. He’s a grown man. Let him suck his own balls.”

Machi stares at him hard, hoping that she still has the energy to slam the door right on Phinks’ face, or better yet, bonk her fist against his jaw. But she’s already given up most of her energy into making sure Hisoka is okay. She doesn’t think she can kick Phinks’ ass without fainting.

“Are you saying that he doesn’t need me?”

“No,” Phinks says, his voice getting exasperated. “I’m saying that it’s not worth it. _He’s_ not worth it.”

Machi shakes her head, curling her hand over the doorknob. “Well, what do you know, Phinks?” she asks, her voice tight. “You never had to see him like this.”

Then, she bangs the door shut, pressing the lock. She grabs Hisoka a glass of water before she returns to the room, tears stinging the back of her eyes like flumes. She sets the glass on the nightstand, staring at the agony drawn across Hisoka’s cheeks like a secret he’s been keeping. She opens the bottle of aspirin and slowly inserts the pill in between his lips.

Hisoka struggles to push the water down his throat, and he ends up coughing out the liquid into the floor. He falls asleep almost immediately, as if his eyelids are already made of steel. Machi wipes the water with the carpet, and she sets herself on the edge of the bed.

Her hand sinks against his cheek, feeling his fever dive against her skin. Her whole body rattles like a cage, and Hisoka is the one keeping her captive. She still doesn’t know how to escape.

“I know that it’s true,” she whispers. “But I also know that I belong to you.”

 

~***~

 

Illumi has been waiting for Hisoka for nearly half an hour. He keeps on glancing at the clock, with its hand ticking dangerously near to the number ten. He can’t help but think that Hisoka has already ditched him. Maybe Hisoka has changed his mind about going to the carnival and decided not to tell Illumi. Or perhaps Hisoka has told himself that Illumi’s attempt to make things better is only a fluke, and he refuses to believe that what Illumi has said to him was true.

He glances at the clock again, his ears ringing with the number of beats his heart is making. He stares out into the railroad, wishing that the train would slide in at any second. He closes his eyes for a brief moment before he folds his hands on his lap, clutching to his knuckles with his fingernails. He digs them deep into the hollow space in between his fingers.

He carefully ducks his head when he feels someone placing his or her gaze on Illumi’s face. He mats his cheek with his hair, his eyes trotting over to the woman sitting beside him. She’s holding a newspaper, trying to hide her stare from his view, but her eyes are burning against the curve of his neck. He stamps a hand over his throat, trying to get himself to breathe before the woman realizes who he is.

Just in time, the train rigs to a stop in front of the station. The doors pop open, releasing puffs of smoke through the vents. Illumi watches the people hustling outside the train. He searches for Hisoka’s red hair, for his golden eyes, for his immense aura seething out like a museum painting.

Finally, Hisoka appears in front of him, a grin adorned on his face. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he says. “The train was late. I was going to call you, but I lost my credits.”

Illumi shakes his head and slowly gets up from his seat. He reaches for Hisoka’s fingers, aware that the man stiffens under his touch. He traces the ridges of Hisoka’s fingers, outlining the words Illumi wants to say on the back of his hand. Illumi brings Hisoka’s hand to his lips, trying to find the fastest route to Hisoka’s safest place.

But it’s obvious that there’s a wall preventing him from doing it. When he glances up, Hisoka’s eyes are painfully made of weak pastel.

“Ah!” the woman beside him suddenly exclaims. “You’re Illumi Zoldyck, right?”

Illumi turns to her, his body rigid. He lets Hisoka’s hand fall to the man’s side. The woman’s eyes are glinting like the first spark of a fire. Almost immediately, he wishes that he hasn’t let go because there’s something gnawing at the crook of his bones, and Hisoka is the only person who can be his anchor. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I am. Why?”

The woman smiles a little. “I wonder,” she whispers, “why they let you on the loose.”

Illumi’s heart suddenly bolts open, letting all the secrets he has in the tissue of his chest, where anyone could easily rip it. He balls his hand tightly against his shirt until the knobs of his knuckles turn pale. There is something simmering in his ribcage, making his lungs suffocate against the heat. The woman doesn’t avert her eyes to somewhere else, and Illumi wishes that she could simply close them.

“Excuse me, miss,” Hisoka says, grabbing Illumi’s wrist. “If you’re done harassing my boyfriend, then I think we ought to leave.”

Hisoka drags Illumi out of the station before the woman can say anything else. When Illumi looks up at the sky, its light is blaring like a halo on top of Hisoka’s head. Illumi extends his hand forward to touch it, but he grasps the sun, instead.

 

~***~

 

The last time Illumi has been to a carnival was when Killua wanted to go to one after school. He was only fourteen, with teeth the size of his fingernails, with his lips curved like an excited circuit, with his chest pasted with happier pictures. It was the brother he knew the most. It was the person Illumi wanted to copy, the boy who had his freedom hanging on to the edge of his sleeve. It was the brother Illumi had wanted to be with.

Now, Hisoka is guiding him into the busy street of the carnival. This is the kind of place Illumi would usually never visit. His mother has always prevented him from going to things like this, where the sun is a cape on people’s head, where his arm brushes against everyone else’s. His feet scuffle against the snowy pavement, and Illumi stares at the open shadows obscuring his body.

There are booths everywhere, with five rides at separate sides of the carnival. Illumi spots a ferries wheel at the middle. The hoop turns around with steady beating. He looks at the highest peak of the ferries wheel, where Illumi is sure that he can taste the sun, the fragments of snow. He turns to Hisoka, but his eyes widen in surprise when he realizes that the man is already gone.

His body swerves around in frantic searching. His eyes are darting back and forth, trying to see the flash of red hair behind the sea of people. He digs his fingernails against his palms until his breathing calms down, and he closes his eyes, trying to imagine himself somewhere else. Hisoka would not abandon him, not when the man was the one who suggested even coming here in the first place.

When he feels a tap on his shoulder, Hisoka is hiding his face behind the string of pink cotton candy. He peeks behind the fluffy stick, his eyes glinting. “Did you miss me?”

Illumi accepts the cotton candy, staring down at the fleecy substance. His heart has stopped pounding against his throat. Instead, it’s replaced by the tune of Hisoka’s voice. “You shouldn’t have gone off like that without telling me.”

“Oh, did I worry you?” Hisoka asks. When Illumi doesn’t answer, he takes Illumi’s hand, lacing their fingers together like a padlock. This time, his voice is softer, resembling the first note of Illumi’s favorite piano composition. “I wouldn’t leave you. Not like that.”

Illumi glances up at him, repeating the words in his until he has everything memorized. _Does that mean_ , he thinks, _you’ll leave me in any other way?_

As if Hisoka has heard his thoughts, he pulls Illumi forward. He catches Illumi’s lips like a perfect roadmap, tracing Illumi’s mouth with his tongue. Illumi finds himself leaning closer to Hisoka, his skin absolutely begging for warmth.

He doesn’t realize that his hands are slipping past the side of Hisoka’s ribcage, his fingers capturing the white flake of the sun.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka counts the number of beats hampering in the cavern of his chest – that is the amount of seconds he’s been sitting on the toilet lid. A few minutes before, he was fine. Although, his balance was wobbly, and his knees were starting to shake until he could no longer take it. He excused himself into the bathroom; aware that Illumi never noticed the blood spotted on his teeth, aware that Illumi was too busy looking at the sky to regard him.

He unrolls another wad of tissue and folds it carelessly into squares. He dabs it under his nose. His breathing stumbles when he spots the dark smear of blood hanging tightly to the thin fabric. He throws the tissue paper into the trashcan, slowly struggling to get to his feet. He ignores the searing pain reaching in between his forehead.

There is blood on his hands where pain is evident behind the harsh quivering, and he washes them out on the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror, trying not to notice the hoary color of his face, as if he has been dipped in acid. He ducks his head when the pain starts to spill at the corners of his eyelids, spreading to the line of his forehead before it explodes into tiny bits, where it can fit in the smallest places of his body.

He carefully washes his face and wipes it with his handkerchief, realizing too late that it’s already stained with blood. There is a pink blot on his cheeks and the sides of his lips. When he rubs it with his thumb, the blood only ranges into the other portions of his skin. Hisoka rakes his fingers in his hair and tugs the strands hard enough to cause the pain to pin him against the sink.

His body convulses and threateningly wrenches forward, throwing his open mouth. He releases another cough of blood against the open bowel, his throat wheezing out the clots stuck in the train of his neck. He rests his head against the lip of the sink, breathing heavily. His chest expands until he laughs out the breath he’s been holding. He rubs the back of his hand against his mouth and washes out the blood from his skin.

Something shoves against the shell of his ear – a voice that sends his gut spiraling. He licks the blood on his teeth, closing his eyes when he tastes something completely different.

Hisoka forces his body upward, gritting his teeth together until the letters singe against the insides of his cheeks. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror, because he knows that a ghost has already replaced his own reflection. He pulls out his black Sharpie from his pocket, using it to write a message.

The words slosh against the mirror, the black color is scrawled on the glass like an angry sting: _I should have known that you’d never leave me._

 

~***~

 

Illumi hands Hisoka the cotton candy he left when he exits the bathroom. His teeth already taste too sweet, stinging in between. Illumi plucks another bite and chews it, ignoring the way it hits his tongue like acid. He watches Hisoka desperately take a bite of the cotton candy, ravaging the taste before he could even swallow it down.

“Hisoka,” he says. “Are you all right?”

Hisoka glances up like a predator, his eyes guarded and caught. Illumi almost expects him to bolt. “I’m fine,” he says slowly. He looks down at his finished cotton candy and tosses away the stick. He rubs his hands against his jeans, and Illumi blinks when he sees blood inking the fabric. “Just a little hungry.”

“What’s on your hands?”

Hisoka stares at him. “What?”

Illumi drops his treat and steals Hisoka’s hands before the man could think to retrieve it. There are blotches of blood on Hisoka’s palms and fingers, dry and smudged on the texture of his skin. Illumi runs his thumbs over it, trying to erase it from Hisoka’s touch, but no matter how hard he drags them off, it never seems to be enough.

“You’re bleeding,” Illumi states, his voice wavering. “Let’s go to the hospital.”

“I’m not bleeding,” Hisoka answers. “I accidentally touched the blood on the stalls, but I couldn’t wash it off. That’s why I was taking so long.”

There’s something about Hisoka’s words that just doesn’t make sense, as if the words don’t fit perfectly in the sentence. Illumi closes the gap between them without warning, but Hisoka swiftly backs away. Illumi ends up brushing his lips against Hisoka’s cheek, where the man’s skin is burning. He shapes his hands into fists.

Hisoka slips his fingers around the circle of Illumi’s wrist, tugging him forward. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t think you want to taste something so sweet.”

Illumi nods tightly and swallows the words lying in his throat. He rests his head on Hisoka’s shoulders, feeling the man draw a strained breath at his lips.

When he looks down at his wrist, Illumi can see Hisoka’s name bleeding against his skin.

“Where,” Illumi whispers, “are you hurting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late from my usual updates. But rest assured, I will finish this fic. Please leave a comment if you want to say anything. :) Thank you. ~


	31. Between the Bars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback chapter.

Chapter Thirty-One

 

December 2011

 

 

Illumi realizes that there is a frightening precision when it comes to prison.

Cells are always in lockdown by nine o’clock. Felons are expected to go to bed by ten. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are served at designated times. Illumi has learned the hard way that you absolutely cannot complain about the quality of food, or the guards won’t allow you to eat anything until the next morning. Anyone who disobeys the orders instructed by the guard will be temporarily thrown into a separate bunker – one Illumi has realized smells like cow feces, where moss is growing at the corners of the walls like poison ivies.

This is the kind of restriction Illumi is not used to. There are bruises in his throat where his bitten words have been burned out. There are scars around his wrists from the amount of time he’s spent grazing it with his teeth. His veins are coated with chalk, and his eyes void eyes have gotten darker, forged into the pavement of shadows. When he opens his eyelids, his lashes feel like steel. When he tries to breathe, the smoke only suffocates him. Even after four months, he has not found a single cigarette in his cell, despite the fact that his eyelids are swathed with ashes.

Illumi turns to the side when a guard slides the cell to the corner.

“Morning, sunshine,” the guard announces, and he gestures Illumi to come outside. “Your lawyer is here.”

Illumi nods and slowly gets off the bed. He leaves the cell and watches the guard shackle his wrists together. He lets the guard lead him into the conference room, where his dad will be waiting. He shapes his hands into fists and imagines someone else holding them – someone with knobby knuckles, someone with palms the depth of oceans, someone who could be his life vest. But when Illumi finds a face, he only sees himself.

He enters the conference room and immediately ducks his head before his father can look at him. Silva stands from his seat and hands Illumi the Armani suit that he’s been saving.

“It’s newly washed,” Silva says. “For you.”

The silver textures of his hair have gone gray, and there are circles under his eyes where his love is supposed to be. Illumi accepts the suit and gathers the folded clothing closer to his chest, hoping that the fabric will be able to stop the impact from fully killing him.

“You know what will happen today,” Silva says softly. “You’ve seen this a thousand times. We’ve talked about this a thousand times.”

Illumi nods, surprised when his head does a delicate bob, surprised when his spine doesn’t snap off from the rest of his skull. “Yes, father.”

Silva inhales sharply. “The prosecutor is allowed to say anything she wants at her opening speech, so just stay composed.”

“Yes, father.”

“Your mother won’t be there, and neither will Milluki.”

Illumi continues to nod. “Yes, father.”

Silva is quiet, letting the silence growl over their shoulders until their bones have been sliced in half. Illumi closes his eyes and watches his father’s wrinkled hand settle on his arm.

“You can do this, Illumi,” he whispers. “I believe in you.” Then, hesitantly, he walks out of the conference room, leaving his son to change.

Illumi pulls the clothes closer to his face, breathing in the scent of them, expecting the fabric to smell like milk. But instead, there’s a rancid shroud of smoke kissing the parts of his bones where he can’t see. He presses his lips together as he travels over the skin of his teeth, his breath rattling when he tastes smoke lingering.

Illumi slowly spreads the shirt on the table, letting his hands shake over the sleeves like he’s marking territory.

_Have you come back to haunt me?_

~***~

 

Kaede Ito never goes to trial without having her lucky breakfast.

There is a bowl of oatmeal sitting on the kitchen table, with thin banana slices floating over the porridge like bright ships. There are two pieces of wheat bread on a separate plate, and a cup of coffee, just in case the case gets boring. She reaches for her spoon and takes a delicate bite of her banana oatmeal, limping against her seat when the hot liquid trickles down her throat in one smooth movement.

But she knows fully well that this case is different from the rest. She’s been working on a good case for four months now, and she wishes that she could ask the judge for more time, but Silva Zoldyck has already filed a motion for a faster trial. Considering the amount of power he has over this particular city, she knows that her motion will immediately be denied.

The advantage is this: Illumi Zoldyck has picked a jury to decide his fate for him.

Kaede Ito may not be as famous or successful as Silva Zoldyck, but even the people of Kukuroo will see Illumi Zoldyck’s mistake. That boy is the kind of felon people are afraid of, because they are never sure when another highly sophisticated upper class citizen will snap. Kaede will prove to the jury that Illumi may be able to attack again – and this time, the Zoldyck family won’t be the only ones affected.

She checks the time on her phone and immediately gobbles down the rest of her breakfast. She swiftly grabs for her coffee mug, but her hand accidentally hits the curve of the holder, making the glass shatter on the floor. She stares at the coffee spreading like lava over the lanes of her white tiles, wondering how long it will take to clean it up. She shakes her head and leaps off the kitchen stool, swinging her briefcase behind her.

“I’ll clean it up later,” she mutters, already locking the door.

She realizes only when she slips into her vehicle that the white floors will be completely stained by the time she gets home – and she’ll have to remember Illumi Zoldyck, and what he is about to do.

 

~***~

 

There is a roar to the courtroom that Silva is familiar with. It nips the back of his neck, sneaks up to the span of his shoulders under there’s heavy weight, but somehow, it feels vastly different. Instead of the casual excitement boiling in his fingers, his hands are shaking. There is a constriction in his throat that makes it difficult to speak. His stomach is prickling like there’s a needle sliding in between his teeth.

It makes the noise all the more silent.

Judge Puckett has already ordered the courtroom to settle down – twice. There are reporters launching in and out of the courtroom like bugs, gathering the opinions of the people sitting at the benches. But Silva knows what they’re really here for: to ogle at the defendant. Word has already spread across the city about the alleged murder made by Illumi Zoldyck, and if Silva hasn’t filed a motion for a faster trial, the additional months would have made the whole city into a ruckus.

It would have lengthened the time Illumi has to spend in prison.

Judge Puckett bangs his gravel. “Where’s your client, Mr. Zoldyck?”

“He’s on his way, Your Honor.”

“He better be,” the Judge answers, lazily eyeing the reporters lurking around the room. “He has a whole crowd waiting for him.”

Just in time, a bailiff leads Illumi into the room. The reporters hurry to fish their cameras from the curve of their necks, flipping them open to picture Silva’s son like he’s part of an art gallery. It makes Silva snap in fury. He immediately gathers Illumi into his arms, despite the usual formalities he delivers during a case. The bailiff tries to unhook him from his son’s shoulders, but Silva’s arms are firmly attached.

He takes in the warmth of Illumi’s skin, and buries his nose against the collar of his suit. There is a missing piece that he can’t seem to place, and when he glances down at Illumi’s cuffed wrists, his chest turns into the hurl of an ocean wave. His eyes burn, as if that simple act can make the handcuffs unlock from Illumi’s skin.

“What is the meaning of this?” Silva demands. “Why is my son – my _client_ – in shackles?”

Judge Puckett glances up from his papers and orders the attorneys to come closer to the bench.

“Yes, what is the problem, Mr. Zoldyck?”

Silva glares at Kaede. “My client is in handcuffs, and I request for him to be removed from the chains.”

Kaede Ito steps up. “I’m sure you know that it’s precedent, Mr. Zoldyck.”

Silva closes his eyes for a brief moment, letting the feeling of annoyance pass before he turns to sneer at the prosecutor. “Oh, why thank you for the lesson, Ms. Ito. But my client isn’t about to go on a rampage and kill anyone in this courtroom.”

Kaede Ito’s voice comes evenly, but even Silva can’t miss the second she falters like a tiny twig. “He’s dangerous, Silva. He killed a person.”

“And what’s he going to do in this courtroom? Choke someone with his hair?” Silva walks closer to the prosecutor, his footsteps coming in valiant stomps. “I’m sure you and I know that the only reason you want him in cuffs is for you to prove that he killed someone.”

“Oh, no need. That’s exactly what I’m going to do in this case.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Judge Puckett exhales, ripping the paper in half. “Is this what we call lawyers, nowadays? Ms. Ito, I know that it’s precedent, but I’m going to take a risk and assume that Illumi Zoldyck won’t be stupid enough to murder someone twice. The defendant may remain uncuffed during the trial.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

As soon as Silva walks back to the defense table and waits until Illumi’s wrists are free, he curls a hand over Illumi’s skin, rubbing his thumb against the prodding veins. He eases the tension, hoping that Silva may be able to heal him.

 

~***~

 

A man with a head the size of a pea comes to the front and tells everyone to rise. “The Honorable Markus Puckett presiding,” he announces, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a pebble.

The Judge bangs on his gravel and nods at the courtroom. “Be seated,” he says. He opens up a file and brings out his jar of hard candy on the table. He twists the cap open and pops one into his mouth. Kaede Ito assumes that that’s where he gets his strong teeth, because the Judge doesn’t seem to be noticing that he’s already chewing it.

“The prosecution,” he says, “may begin.”

Immediately, Kaede Ito goes to the front of the courtroom, and faces the jury. “On the night of September 12, 2011, the Zoldyck family expected a normal household, a normal night where they could bond together as a family, where they could spend more time with their loved ones. On the night of September 12, Killua Zoldyck expected his brother – Illumi Zoldyck – to take care of him, to love him, to be safe.” She keeps silent for a second before she continues. “But ladies and gentlemen, on the horrible night of September 12, 2011, Killua Zoldyck was murdered – by his own brother.”

One of the people in the jury pales.

“That’s right. Now, you might think: a Zoldyck, a man of justice, would never do a crime as strenuous as this. But as I said, during this trial, you will unravel something that you will not expect.

“At approximately quarter to midnight, Kikyo Zoldyck woke up with a heavy feeling in her chest, as if she knew immediately that something was wrong – and she was right. She rushed to his husband’s study, where she found her own son bleeding at the carpet floors. She called the police before the family went to the hospital. But Killua was bleeding so profusely that he could not be saved.” Kaede moves closer to the defendant, hoping that Illumi’s eyes could be trained solely on her.

“Illumi Zoldyck was interviewed by the head detective of the police department, and he told the detective that it was a suicide, that he had never touched the gun, that he loved his brother more than anything. But ladies and gentlemen, that is not the truth. I will tell you what is: Illumi Zoldyck killed his brother on September 12, 2011, at approximately 10:45 in the evening. Illumi Zoldyck might be deemed as a man of justice, and I ask of you now that justice will be served.

“You will find out in the evidence that Illumi’s handprints were fixed on that gun _and_ on the bullets found in that gun. You will find out from Mamoru, the head detective, that what Illumi said didn’t match up to the evidence shown. You will find out from a friend and a psychologist that Killua had never been suicidal, nor was he trying to kill himself on that night. Ladies and gentlemen, you will hear from the defense the story that Illumi wants to give – that he loved his brother so much that he’d help Killua commit suicide – but who’s to say that that is the real one?”

Kaede Ito proceeds to the jury again, bearing them with her gaze. “Illumi Zoldyck will feed you lies, but luckily, I am here to give you the truth.”

 

~***~

 

“That’s certainly an interesting speech, Ms. Ito,” Silva says, firmly rooted to his seat. “You almost had me believe it.” A smile slinks over his face, an obvious attempt of letting the jury know that he’s only flattering her. Silva stands up and proceeds to the center before he slowly makes his way to the jury. “Unfortunately, there is only one known fact: that Killua Zoldyck, my son, is dead.”

Silva doesn’t let the smile creep away from his mouth; he doesn’t let the prosecutor know that his throat is as thick as a mound. “There is one way to make a family grieve, and that is to know that your loved one is dead. Surely, that could be considered as a tragedy.” He takes the juror members with his stare, hardens his eyes until they could no longer bear to look away. “Don’t let this be one of them.”

He walks closer to the bench and splays his fingers over the edge. “What the prosecutor will do is bring you facts, but that is not the story. My job as Illumi Zoldyck’s lawyer is to not only tell you what happened, but I will also tell you the truth: that Illumi Zoldyck loves his brother so much that he could not be able to willingly kill his own blood, that Killua Zoldyck was indeed suicidal, and that Illumi was the only person who could help, that Illumi Zoldyck,” he pauses, staring at each and every one of their faces, “is not a murderer, but simply a person who loves someone so much that he’ll do anything to make his brother happy, someone who has grieved because of that tragedy.”

Silva turns his back to the jury, letting them process what he’s said before he glances toward them. “Will you hold it against him?”

He walks back to his seat and keeps his gaze leveled with Judge Puckett. He can feel Illumi shrinking beside him, as if he’s trying to hide his body before anything else can happen. “Illumi,” he says, placing a hand on his arm. “Illumi, are you all right?”

His son doesn’t look at him. He keeps his eyes focused on the tip of Silva’s pen, and Silva can’t help but wonder: _How raw was your love that Killua drowned?_

 

~***~

 

“The prosecution calls Detective Mamoru Yamamoto to the stand.”

As the first witness goes in front, there is a beating hum in the courtroom. Mamoru exudes the confidence of someone who’s experienced this before, someone who’s sat on the stand and knew what to do. He places his hand on the Bible and does the standards procedure before he faces Kaede Ito. A grin creeps up his lips like the silver line of a crescent. Kaede resists the urge to smile back herself.

“Please state your name and address for the record.”

Mamoru does as asked, and Kaede walks closer to the stand.

“Mamoru, what is your position in the police department?”

“I’m the head detective of the Kukuroo police.”

“How long have you been in the service?”

“Seven years.”

“Seven years,” Kaede whistles. “That’s a pretty long time.”

“Well,” Mamoru says, his grin shoving wider, “I like what I do.”

Kaede and Mamoru give a brief exchange of his expertise and practice in the field, before Kaede straightens her jaw and hardens the look on her face. Mamoru mirrors her expression, knowing fully well what she’s going to ask next.

“Who investigated the Zoldyck murder scene on the night of September 12, 2011?”

“I did.”

“Did Kikyo Zoldyck call you in the middle of the night to report the murder of Killua Zoldyck?”

“Yes, she did.”

“What did she say?”

“That her son was bleeding out on the floor, that her son was dying, and someone murdered him.”

“Did you immediately go to the Zoldyck mansion to investigate?”

Mamoru nods. “Yes.”

“And what did you find in the crime scene?”

“I found a revolver, with five bullets in its case – one bullet missing. There was blood on the floor that was from the victim and Illumi Zoldyck.”

“Did you retrieve the weapon?”

“Yes, I did,” Mamoru says, inhaling deeply. “I sent the evidence for a DNA analysis.”

Kaede walks to the exhibit table and gingerly picks up the gun. Her fingers are loosely clasped around the gun, as if it’s about to let out cold fumes. Kaede’s breath shakes as she realizes that Illumi Zoldyck has held this, too. “Was this the gun you found at the crime scene?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to enter this as Exhibit A,” she announces. She heads over to Silva Zoldyck as court procedure, but he only scowls in response. She returns it to the table and curls her fingers, trying to keep her heartbeat steady.

“Did you find out the owner of the gun?”

“Yes. It belonged to Silva Zoldyck.”

“You are familiar that Silva Zoldyck will be representing the defendant today?”

“Yes.”

“And you also know that he is the father of the defendant?”

Before Mamoru can answer, Silva is already on his feet. “Objection,” he calls out. “Relevance?”

“Overruled.”

Mamoru nods. “Yes.”

“Did you identify the body of the victim?”

“Yes, I did.” Mamoru places his hands on the edge of the railing. “There was a gun shot wound near his right temple, passing through the back of his head.”

“So, the gun was used in the murder.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. So, let’s move on to the tests you’ve taken with the gun.”

Mamoru stands up straighter, excitement practically pulsing through his body like a wave. “Well,” he says. “there was only one bullet fired – passed through the victim’s temple and exited the back of his head, like I said before. There were five extra slots in the casing of the gun.”

“Did you find any fingerprints on the bullets?”

“Yeah. Illumi Zoldyck’s fingerprints were found on six bullets, as well as the gun used.”

Kaede Ito nods, tapping her chin in wonder, as if she is just starting to process this information. “Were there other fingerprints found on the bullets?”

“No. Only Illumi’s were present.”

“And what, in your expert opinion, could that have meant?”

“That Illumi Zoldyck was the only person to have touched those bullets.”

Kaede walks closer to the stand, keeping Mamoru’s gaze. “Did you run other tests on the gun and bullets?”

“We had a standard ballistics test on the gun itself. Illumi Zoldyck’s fingerprints were all over the gun, but Killua Zoldyck’s was only on the barrel of the revolver.”

“Can you show us to further explain your answer?” Kaede retrieves the gun and gives it to Mamoru.

Mamoru strides his fingers over the length. “Illumi’s fingerprints were all over this area, while the victim’s were found only at this portion.” Mamoru strokes the heavy steel barrel of the gun with easy grace. He returns the gun to Kaede, and the attorney returns the gun to the exhibit table once again.

“But of course, detective, to kill yourself, you’d have to put your hand on the butt of the gun.”

“That’s correct.”

“Yet Killua Zoldyck’s fingerprints were not there.”

“No.”

“All right.” Kaede nods. “What other tests did you run?”

“The basic Luminol test. It’s a fluorescent spray that uncovers blood splatter patterns. From the results of the test, we concluded that Killua was standing up when someone shot him in the head, and he was within close proximity when the gun was fired. We also concluded that it wasn’t long before Killua was moved into another position.”

Kaede nods. “Any other tests?”

“Yes. We found gun residue on the clothes of the victim’s and the defendant’s. There were also gun residue on the victim’s fingerprints.”

“Was that unusual to you?”

“Yes, because gun residue was normally found on a person’s body if he or she were to kill him or herself. However, Killua’s fingers were clear from any evidence of gun residue.”

“And what did you conclude, detective?”

“That,” Mamoru breathes heavily, “Killua Zoldyck had not planned on killing himself.”

“Did you have the chance to interview Illumi Zoldyck?”

“Yes. I interviewed him on the night his brother had died. I read him his rights, and he agreed.”

“What did you summarize from the interview?”

“Basically, I understood that Illumi had found his brother in his father’s study right after his brother killed himself. He said that he hadn’t touched the gun because he was too stricken with grief from his brother’s suicide.”

Kaede draws closer to the jury now, knowing that their attention is fully concentrated on her and Mamoru. “Did that connect with the evidence you’ve gathered from the crime?”

“No, it did not.”

“How come?”

“Well,” Mamoru sighs, “if Illumi’s fingerprints weren’t on the gun _and_ the bullets, and if the trajectory of the bullet weren’t made at a weird angle – ”

“Objection!”

“And if Killua didn’t have bruises on his wrist – ”

“Objection!”

“And if Illumi hadn’t lied in the interview – ”

_“Objection!”_

“Then, maybe I would’ve believed him.”

_“Objection, Your Honor!”_

Judge Puckett gives Silva measuring glance before returning his attention to Mamoru. “Please proceed.”

Kaede’s breath is a cloud in her throat, reaching the pathway of her tongue like the singe of smoke. “So, from the evidence you’ve gathered at the crime scene, from the tests you’ve run on the gun and the bullets, and in your expert opinion, what conclusion did you reach?”

“That Illumi Zoldyck indeed murdered his brother.”

Kaede releases the breath she’s been holding, surprised when she can still manage to fit the words in her compressed chest. “Thank you, detective. Nothing further.”

 

~***~

 

 

As soon as Silva stands up for the cross examination, the detective almost cowers away. Silva’s glare is as sharp as a needle, and he’s keeping his eyes trained directly at the detective’s face. Silva forces himself to smile as he reaches closer to the stand, but his mouth snaps into a thinner line.

“Detective Mamoru,” he grits out. “Seven years of service. Must be fun.”

“It definitely is, Mr. Zoldyck.”

“So,” Silva says, straining another smile. “You said that you found Illumi’s fingerprints all over the gun, except the barrel.”

“That is correct.”

“But just because his fingerprints were on the gun doesn’t exactly make him a suspect, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Mamoru agrees. “But his fingerprints were also found on the bullets, not just on the gun.”

Silva’s lips twitch. “Mhm. But is it also true that you only need a quarter inch of a fingerprint, an incredibly tiny area, to make a credible match?”

“Yes. But we need a specific area for the fingerprint.”

“So, it can’t simply be a random spot?”

“No.”

“Can fingerprints also be smudged? Tampered perhaps by another person?”

“Of course.”

Silva tips his head. “Let’s say, I touch the gun, and you also brush it with your fingers. Is it possible that your fingerprints can erase the evidence of mine?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Then, if Killua has touched the gun, and Illumi also handled the gun, then would it be possible for Killua’s fingerprints to be erased from evidence because Illumi tampered with the gun?”

“It’s possible,” the detective agrees.

Silva nods. “Will you know whether Killua has expertise in guns based off his fingerprints?”

“No.”

“Well, detective,” Silva says, shoving his hands in his pockets. This time, he gives Mamoru a bigger grin. “It’s no secret that Killua Zoldyck was my son, and he’d been my son for fifteen whole years. I, for one, know that Killua had never touched a weapon, much less a revolver.”

“Objection!” Kaede calls. “If there was a question there, I failed to hear it.”

“Calm yourself, Ito,” Silva responds lazily. “I was just getting to my point.”

“Proceed, Mr. Zoldyck.”

Silva returns his attention to the detective. “As I was saying, Killua had never touched a weapon. Wouldn’t those six bullets signify that maybe he was afraid to fail the first time around, so he made sure that he had extra bullets just in case?”

“It’s possible. But his fingerprints weren’t on the bullets. Illumi’s, on the other hand, were.”

“But didn’t you just say that it was _possible_ for Illumi’s fingerprints to erase Killua’s from the evidence?” Silva lifts an eyebrow.

Mamoru sighs. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Good.” Silva smiles. “Killua wasn’t an expert in guns, and certainly, he was afraid before he committed suicide. In your expert opinion, wouldn’t it be possible for Illumi to help Killua because his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t get the bullets into the case?”

Mamoru hesitates. “It could happen.”

“Yes or no, detective.”

“Yes,” he mumbles. “It’s possible.”

“Perfect,” Silva says, clasping his hands. “Moving on. You said that gun residue was found in Illumi’s fingers, although Killua’s were clean.”

“Yes.”

“But,” Silva continues, “didn’t you arrive at the hospital right after Killua was washed by the nurses?”

Mamoru is silent, and his face has gone pale. He eyes Kaede from behind the peak of Silva’s shoulders. “That is correct.”

“By that time, Killua’s body was already cleansed from blood and any hints of gun residue. But wouldn’t it be possible that Killua _still_ had gun residue before he was brought out of the ER?”

“That’s right.”

“Or perhaps tampered by the nurses when he was brought to the hospital? Or maybe the doctors who were trying to get him to live?”

“Both could be possible.”

Silva nods in response, the smile spreading over his lips. He walks over to the exhibit table and plucks out the transcript of Illumi’s interview – one he shouldn’t have allowed his son to have. Maybe that simple mistake could have changed the outcome.

“Is this the transcript you printed from Illumi’s interview?”

“Yes.”

“Could you read this line right here?” Silva points to the conversation and shoves the paper at the detective’s face.

“We’re very close,” Mamoru recites. “Killua and I talk about everything together. I love him as a brother.”

“And read . . . this.”

“He always tells me that he wants to be happy.”

“Now, I’d seen those two together,” Silva says. “They were very close before Killua died. Do you think that this statement, disregarding the others, is proof that Illumi would have done anything to make his brother happy, even if that means helping Killua kill himself?”

“Objection!” Kaede protests. “My witness is not an expert on love and psychology.”

“It’s a very basic question about his opinion, Your Honor. I simply want to know what detective Mamoru can say about Illumi’s response.”

“I’ll allow it.”

Silva nods at the detective.

Mamoru stares down at his lap, closing his eyes. “I’m not sure what Illumi was thinking of that night,” he admits. “And I’m not sure whether what he said was a lie or not. But all I know is that if that’s the kind of love someone wants to give to me, I don’t want that love at all.”

Silva steps back, feeling his heart leap into the palm of his hand like a present, about to unravel whatever raw hurt and anger he’s been keeping. He is so surprised that when he opens his mouth, he has to work harder to speak. “Nothing further, Your Honor.” He returns to his seat, and realizes for the first time that Illumi is staring down at his wrists, closing and opening his hands, as if his heart is beating in the pulse of his fingers.

 

~***~

 

Silva isn’t surprised when Judge Puckett calls for a recess right after his cross-examination. The faces of the jury are starting to get blank, like all the information they just took in went off the page. Silva watches the people walk out of the courtroom and crowd the hallway, either to take a breather or pretend that the detective’s testimony hasn’t just taken its toll on their thinking. Honestly, Silva needs that himself.

Just as he begins to stand, his son grabs him by the sleeve.

Illumi is bent forward, his cheek pressed against the mahogany desk of the table. “Father,” he says, his voice coming as a deep trench inside Silva’s stomach. “May I go to the restroom?”

“Sure,” Silva answers. “I’ll take you.”

He motions for the bailiff, and the man gives him permission. Silva leads Illumi into the men’s bathroom, dodging the reporters with easy grace. As soon as they enter the restroom, Illumi dives into one of the cubicles and locks the door behind him. Silva stares at the closed entrance before he walks over to the sink, washing his face to get rid of the weariness evident on his cheeks.

He closes his eyes when he hears a wretch in the cubicle Illumi has entered. He wipes his face with his handkerchief, smelling something unfamiliar in the fabric. He turns around to stare at the closed stall, wondering what Illumi has purged out from his body just to act this strong.  

 

~***~

 

Kaede’s next witness, the medical examiner of the Kukuroo hospital, Dr. Hayashi, is so comfortable on the stand that Silva isn’t surprised when Kaede reads his credentials. The man has done over four hundred autopsies in his entire career, which clearly states that Kaede has an expert on the stand. Although, Silva isn’t affected. He already knows what’s going to happen.

“Dr. Hayashi,” Kaede begins. “Were you the one who did the autopsy report of Killua Zoldyck?”

“Why, yes, I did.”

“Can you tell us more about it?”

“Of course,” Dr. Hayashi says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “The victim was shot in the head with a fifty-five caliber bullet against the skull of the brain, and the bullet passed near the right portion of his frontal lobe, and exited the head through the lower part of the occipital lobe.”

Kaede smiles modestly, looking at the clueless faces of the jury. “I’m sorry, Doctor. Most of us here are no so familiar with medical jargon. Can you go by that again?”

The Doctor nods patiently and stamps his palm over his forehead to demonstrate. “The bullet went through the forehead,” he says slowly. Then, he taps the back of his head, near the line of his neck. “And the bullet exited here.” He twists himself in his seat to show the jury what he means.

When Kaede recognizes the realization of their faces, she continues. “Thank you, Doctor.” She walks closer to the stand. “Was Killua Zoldyck’s death immediate?”

“Oh, certainly not. While firing a gun is an effective method of suicide, I’d say that Killua was still alive for about half an hour before he finally gave in. I do recall the medics saying that he was still breathing when he was brought to the hospital.”

“Then, that means that Killua was still suffering from the pain for about thirty minutes before he died?”

“That’s correct.”

Kaede widens her eyes in shock to imitate the jury’s horrified expression, even though she has already known what the doctor would answer to her question. “Doctor, what else did you find in the victim’s body?”

“I found scratch marks over his cheek,” the doctor says. “Right here.” He points to his cheekbone, drawing a thin line. “I also found the same marks over his wrists. They were also skin cells under his fingernails that didn’t match his own.”

“And whose did it match?”

“The defendant, Illumi Zoldyck.”

Kaede nods. “You said that you found marks over his wrists and cheek. In your medical opinion, what does that indicate?”

“It indicates that there was possibly a sign of violence when it happened.”

“Was it also a sign of a struggle?”

“Objection!” Silva says. “She’s leading, Your Honor.”

“Sustained,” Judge Puckett answers, popping another hard candy into his mouth.

“I’ll rephrase,” Kaede says. “What did it lead you to believe?”

“That there were also signs of a struggle.”

Kaede proceeds to the jury, resting her arm on the rail. “You’ve seen a lot of suicide cases, am I right, Doctor?”

“That’s right.”

“In your medical opinion, would there have been signs of a struggle if the cause of death was a suicide?”

Silva is already on his feet. “Objection!”

Judge Puckett stares at him, considering, before he turns his face back to Doctor Hayashi. “You may answer the question, Doctor.”

“No, I don’t think there would be signs of a struggle.”

Kaede breathes slowly. “You agreed that you’d seen a lot of suicide cases. How many were they?”

“About sixty to seventy, I assume.”

“What is the most popular method that you’ve encountered?”

“Definitely a gunshot wound to the head. It’s highly effective, and very well-known to the public.”

“What is the estimated number?”

“About forty-six.”

“And among those forty-six suicides, how many used a revolver?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“What is the typical position of those suicides that used a revolver or a gun?”

The doctor suddenly looks uncomfortable, like discussing this in public would be like a suggestion. “Most people shoot themselves in the mouth because that’s the most effective. Others on the forehead and the temple.”

“Where did Killua Zoldyck shoot himself?”

“On the forehead.”

“And where did the bullet exit?”

“At the lower portion on the back of his head.” The doctor points to the positions again for the jury.

“Did you find this unusual?”

“Why, yes, actually.” This time, the doctor’s eyes glint like a stoplight, and Silva’s breath catches in his chest. His body immediately stiffens, aware that something is going to happen – and he’s not going to like it. “Most people have their gun angled steadily at the forehead, causing the bullet to pass straight through the occipital lobe. However, that’s not what happened with Killua Zoldyck. The bullet passed through the _lower_ part, which indicates that he held the gun like this.”

Doctor Hayashi positions his hand, cocking his fingers into a gun. He places his index finger against his forehead, setting his hand into an unnatural angle. “In my opinion, this is not a typical position for suicide, but – ”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

“But rather, a position for – ”

“Objection!”

“A position for murder.”

 _“Objection!”_ Silva is seething, his breaths coming in short huffs. He glares at the prosecutor with so much ferocity that Kaede momentarily staggers on her feet.

“Sustained,” Judge Puckett. “I’m sorry for the delay, Mr. Zoldyck. I was enjoying my candy.”

“I can see that, Your Honor,” Silva grits out.

Judge Puckett turns to the jury. “Please ignore Dr. Hayashi’s last statement. Ms. Ito, any more questions?”

“No, Your Honor,” Kaede says, smiling. “Nothing further.”

 

~***~

 

“Thank you for being here, Dr. Hayashi,” Silva greets. “Now, we all know that you’ve worked on forty-six suicides. You said that there was an evidence of a struggle from the scratch on Killua’s cheek and on his wrists. But what if,” Silva says, raising his voice a little louder, “those scratches were not from violence, yet from self-harming, instead?”

Dr. Hayashi inclines his head and gives Silva a small smile. “That could be possible.”

“So, it could also be possible that no violence occurred, and the scratching could have happened even before Killua committed suicide?”

“Yes.”

“All right. You also said that Illumi’s skin cells were found under Killua’s fingernails.”

“Correct.”

“But that doesn’t technically mean that Killua was fighting Illumi off, does it?”

“No.”

“Could Killua have gotten Illumi’s skin by scraping his jaw or cheek? Or maybe even the arm?”

The doctor nods. “Of course.”

“So, the fact that Killua has Illumi’s skin cells under his fingernails isn’t proof that there’s any violence involved, that there are a hundred different ways to get someone’s skin cells under your fingernails. Is that what you’re telling me, Doctor?”

“Yes, Mr. Zoldyck.”

“You’re not sure of the fact that any violence occurred, are you, Dr. Hayashi?”

“No,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean that it _didn’t_ happen, either.”

Silva doesn’t make any sign of hearing him. Instead, he turns to Judge Puckett. “Your Honor, may I request permission to have my client in front?”

“Absolutely not!” Kaede interjects.

The Judge orders the counsel to approach the bench. “What are you on, Mr. Zoldyck?”

“Just a little demonstration, Judge. I’d just like to show to the jury what could have happened that night.”

“A reenactment?” Kaede sputters out. “No, that’s not fair.”

“Oh, the law isn’t fair, Ito,” Silva snarls out. “I thought you were used to that by now.”

Judge Puckett sighs. “You may proceed, Silva. Although, you know your limits.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

As Kaede returns to her seat, Silva can hear her mutter a string of curses under her breath, most likely directed to Silva himself.

“Illumi,” Silva calls. “Please step in front.”

His son snaps his head up in surprise, but he reluctantly comes forward, hiding his face behind his blanket of hair from the jury and the reporters gathered around the courtroom. “Father?” Illumi asks. “What’s going on?”

“Just relax,” Silva murmurs. He picks up the gun from the exhibit table, not bothering to ask Kaede if she’d allow him permission. He turns to face the jury and the doctor, a grin spreading over his lips like the wings of a falcon. He tucks an arm around Illumi’s waist, bringing his son closer. He orders Illumi to put his arms around Silva’s body, and his son blinks, slowly resting his hand loosely on the small of Silva’s back. “Now I don’t look like much of a kid, so you’d have to use your imagination in this.”

Silva cocks the gun in his direction, bringing the barrel to his own forehead. “Considering that Killua has never had expertise in handling guns, and he must have been so scared that his hands were shaking, could he have held the gun like this?” He sets his hand into a weird angle, estimating the distance based on what he’s seen on the autopsy report.

“It’s possible.”

“And could he have been shaking so hard that Illumi had to help him hold the gun, and the position was held like this?” Silva places Illumi’s hand over his, ignoring the chill that runs through his spine when he realizes that Illumi’s skin is unnaturally freezing. “Could that movement have made the trajectory of the gun go in a weirder direction?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re saying, Doctor, that Killua could have held the gun in different ways, and it could still count as a suicide?”

“I suppose so.”

Silva nods and breaks free from Illumi’s embrace, returning the gun to the table. “Thank you.”

 

~***~

 

The more this trial begins to take its toll on Silva’s head, the more he’s sure that Kaede is secretly mocking him. Every witness she’s presented is giving him a headache, and surely, this next one will make his whole mind explode. There’s no way that he can handle another witness that won’t make him go crazy. Ironic, because the next witness is an expert psychologist.

“Dr. Akiyama,” Kaede says. “I’m so glad to have you here today.”

“It’s my pleasure, Ms. Ito.” Dr. Akiyama smiles, obviously comfortable and at ease on the stand.

“Doctor, how many teenagers have you worked with?”

“Oh, thousands, Ms. Ito,” he replies. “I can’t possibly count all of them.”

“And how many of them have shown tendencies or warning signs of committing suicide?”

“I’ve worked with at least three hundred suicidal teens in my career.”

“Not many of us are experts in suicide, Doctor. Would you mind giving us an overview?”

Dr. Akiyama smiles gently at the jury, and Silva can almost hear them swoon. “Not at all, Ms. Ito. Teen suicide is very alarming, spreading across the country. Teenagers are asked to be taken seriously. At that age, parents expect their kids to act as adults, however they seem to forget that their children also need the love and attention they deeply crave. Parents brush them off; they think that suicide is something these teenagers can easily get over. The problem is that, that is not the case. If these teenagers don’t get the love and attention they want from their parents, or any from important people in their lives, they immediately think, “Oh, that’s fine. You don’t really care.” And then, they kill themselves. Suicide is not a faster way of dying – it’s more of a way of erasing your existence, erasing the problem.”

“What are the most usual ways of committing suicide?”

“Well,” he says. “The most common, of course, is a shotgun to the head. It has a ninety-nine percent chance of killing you. Other methods are the usage of cyanide, hanging, carbon monoxide poisoning, drowning in a bathtub, and cutting of arms and legs. These methods are more common because it’s accessible.”

“Is there a difference between the percentage of both genders killing themselves?”

“Girls try to kill themselves more than boys do. However, boys have a higher success rate.”

“Oh?” Kaede feigns surprise. “And why is that, Doctor?”

“Girls tend to go for the longer methods, such as slashing of wrists or drowning. Boys try to kill themselves using guns, or through hanging. The former are slower processes, while the latter are faster, causing them to die before someone could stop them.”

Kaede nods. She joins her fingers together, resting her hands against her stomach. “Do teenagers just kill themselves out of the blue? Or are there warning signs that we should watch out for?”

“Depression,” Dr. Akiyama says solemnly. “The teenager may be feeling it for years, or maybe only a few months. But depression is a mental disorder that has affected a fair number of the population. Depression, most likely, leads up to suicide.”

“Is depression a common mental illness, Doctor?”

“Sadly, it is.”

“Do these also have warning signs that we should look for?”

Dr. Akiyama smiles sadly again, looking at the jury. “Yes. Teenagers show a lot of these signs, actually. They have feelings of hopelessness and helplessness. They start to lose interest in daily activities, as well as their hobbies. They lost weight or gain weight. Insomnia is also a factor. Anger or irritability. Self-loathing. Reckless behavior. Running away is also a sign that the person has depression. Having trouble in concentration.” He shakes his head. “These signs either come outright, or things that teenagers can easily hide.”

Kaede pulls out a document – Killua’s medical information, and all the interviews from his friends. “You’ve read Killua Zoldyck’s profile, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Although, I didn’t have the chance to interview him, because he’s . . . dead.” The doctor smiles sheepishly, making Silva’s eyes saunter over to the jury again, their eyes warming at the sight.

“And what did his friends have to say about him?”

“Well, the funny thing is, they never noticed any signs of depression when Killua was still alive. They said that he was a very happy kid.”

“Objection,” Silva calls. “Hearsay.”

“I’ll rephrase, then,” Kaede says. “What did you get from the interview you’ve had with them?”

“They were unaware of Killua’s suicidal tendencies and signs of depression. They couldn’t find a single moment where Killua was showing that he wanted to kill himself, nor did they notice a single moment where Killua was depressed.”

“You said that you’ve read Killua’s profile. Did you see sleeplessness on the list?”

“No.”

“How about loss or gain of weight?”

“Not at all.”

“Did he seem focused on death?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did he have trouble concentrating?”

“I don’t believe he did.”

“Then, Doctor,” Kaede continues, “in your expert opinion, does that mean that Killua was never suicidal or depressed in the first place?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Silva says, rolling his eyes. “She’s leading her client.”

“Sustained. Please stop leading your client, Ms. Ito.”

Kaede purses her lips into a thin line. “I’ll rephrase, Your Honor. Judging from the interview you’ve had with Killua’s friends, and what you said about the signs of depression and suicide, what, in your expert opinion, did that lead you to believe?”

“That,” Dr. Akiyama breathes sharply, “Killua Zoldyck was not suicidal or depressed.”

“That’s all, thank you.”

 

~***~

 

Silva doesn’t know how to make the expert look like an idiot, so the best he can do is not to try at all. He proceeds to the front and pushes his hands into his pockets. “All right,” he says, narrowing his eyes at the challenge. “Kaede Ito asked you about the signs of suicidal tendencies and depression, and whether Killua had some of them. However, I’ve noticed that she hadn’t questioned all of the signs.” He pulls out his hands and spreads his fingers wide. “Did Killua show acts of rebelliousness?”

To his surprise, Dr. Akiyama smiles. “As I saw in the profile, yes, he did.”

“In what way, Doctor?”

“Killua snuck away from his home a couple of times. Sometimes, during the night, but mostly during the day.”

“Was Killua easily angered or irritated?”

“Yes.”

Silva closes his eyes for a moment, forcing the words to exit his lips. He knows that as soon as they’re out there, he can’t pluck them back in his mouth. He can feel Illumi’s eyes scabbing the back of his neck. “Why?”

“He had family problems at home.”

“Could that have been enough reason to be depressed?”

“Why, yes, of course. Most causes of depression come from the environment at home.”

“So, if Killua were always running away, and if he were easily angered, could those also be signs of depression and suicidal tendencies?”

“Certainly.”

“In the profile, it said that Killua didn’t have sleeplessness. However, to sneak out from the Zoldyck mansion, he’d have to be awake, yes?”

Dr. Akiyama’s grin twitches. “Yes, that is certainly required.”

“Then, would it be possible for sleeplessness to be on the list?”

“Yes. It’s possible.”

Silva flips his notes, curling the page when he finds the paper he needs. “You also said that signs of depression couldn’t easily be seen by others.”

“That’s right.”

“Would it be possible for Killua to be depressed and suicidal without ever showing it?”

“That’s correct.”

“So, you can’t say for sure that Killua wasn’t depressed or suicidal?”

“No.”

Silva glances up at the doctor with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Dr. Akiyama.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Zoldyck.”

 

~***~

 

Kaede can’t believe Silva made her own witness look like he was helping the defense, although she hasn’t expected anything less. But Dr. Akiyama isn’t her biggest hope. Silva Zoldyck might have made the doctor into his ally, but that won’t change the case Kaede has worked hard to attain. Not when her next witness is her lucky draw.

“The prosecution calls Gon Freecs to the stand.”

As the boy proceeds in front and swears on the Bible, Kaede smiles warmly. She found the kid from the school faculty staff room, when she was gathering more information to use about the case. When the teachers told her to talk to Gon Freecs, she didn’t expect the boy to give her more than what she wanted – he gave her everything she needed to know about Killua Zoldyck, probably much more than the whole Zoldyck family ever will.

Gon turns to the prosecutor with a smile.

“Gon,” Kaede says softly. “Thank you for being here today.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Gon croaks out, his voice shaky over the microphone.

Kaede nods sadly. “Gon, what was your relationship with Killua Zoldyck?”

“We were best friends!” Gon beams, as if Killua is right in front of him.

“Can you tell us about your relationship with him?”

Gon nods, reciting the words they’ve practiced by heart. The first time Kaede heard them, she felt her chest squeeze with so much force that she had to get up for air. Even now, as he tells her of what he feels about Killua Zoldyck, her throat furrows together like a clipped barrel.

“We hung out a lot,” Gon says. “He used to stay at my apartment after school. We’d play video games or catch fishes by the lake. Sometimes, we’d buy each other chocolates – those really cute ones with the robots? And he’d sneak out of his house on weekends to go with me.”

“You spent a lot of time together, didn’t you?”

“We did. We were best friends,” Gon repeats. “We told everything to each other.”

“Everything,” Kaede says. “Did he tell you that he was suicidal?”

Silva is already on his feet. “Objection!”

“Overruled.”

When Kaede nods at him, Gon opens his mouth to speak. “No. He didn’t.”

“Not even a hint?”

“No. He was usually really cheerful when he was with me, you know?” Gon’s eyes warms up like a bonfire. “But sometimes, he was pissed off every time he had to go home. He wasn’t happy at home.”

“Hmm. Why’s that?”

“He had a lot of family problems,” Gon admits. “He didn’t like his family very much.”

“Objection!” Silva shouts.

Judge Puckett glances at Silva briefly. “Overruled.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“No. He was very closed up about. He didn’t like talking about his problems.”

“I see. Do you know the defendant?”

Gon stares at Illumi before ducking his head, a sheepish smile fawning his face. “Not really,” he admits. “But Killua talked about his brother, sometimes. I could tell that they were really close. Killua looked up to him, but it also seemed like . . . he didn’t like what his brother was doing.”

“Did he elaborate on that?”

“No. Like I said, he didn’t like talking about it.”

“Gon, do you think the defendant could have hurt Killua?”

“Objection!” Silva leaps from his seat. “Speculative!”

Judge Puckett gives Gon a curious glance, tipping a hard candy into his mouth. “I’ll allow it.”

“Gon,” Kaede repeats. “Do you think the defendant could have hurt Killua?”

They’ve already practiced this the night before. Gon would admit that he thinks Illumi is the sole reason for Killua’s fear, for Killua’s anger, but the moment Kaede takes a look at the bronze dome of Gon’s eyes, she knows immediately that Gon will not give her the answer she needs.

“I think,” Gon says slowly, meeting Illumi in the eye, “that his brother loved him. I think he still does, even if what happened was really screwed up.”

Kaede nods tightly, feeling a fuddled texture crowding the back of her head. “Your witness.”

 

~***~

 

Silva honestly didn’t expect Gon to be in his favor. When he steps closer to the stand, Gon stares at him, not as a defense attorney, but as Killua’s father. Silva wishes that he could have seen Gon and his son together. Silva wishes that he could have seen Killua happy with this boy. And he wonders why Killua has kept Gon Freecs a secret for so long.

“Gon,” he says softly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry as well, Mr. Zoldyck,” Gon replies softly. “Killua really wanted me to meet you.”

Silva feels something snap in his throat. “Me, too.” He clears his throat. “So, Gon. You and Killua were really close.”

“We were,” Gon agrees, nodding firmly.

“You talked about everything with each other.”

“Yes.”

“What did you usually talk about?”

Gon tips his head to the side, his eyebrows gathering together in thought. “We talked about . . . everything. About how annoying math class was, or where we’d go the next weekend, or what we’d do after school. Sometimes,” Gon says, blushing, “we talked about going on an adventure.”

“You mean, running away?”

“Objection!” Kaede yells. “That’s leading!”

“I’ll rephrase, Your Honor,” Silva says. “What do you mean by adventure?”

Gon smiles a little. “Running away. Killua wanted that more than anything. We were going to do it on the night he died.”

Silva takes a mental step back, momentarily stunned by this new information. If Killua hadn’t been killed, would he still be here? If Killua weren’t buried six inches deep, would Silva still find him at home? Or was Killua not meant to stay here all along? “Why didn’t you?”

“He died before we could do it. And he said that he didn’t want to leave until he brought his brother with him.”

At that, Silva’s head swerves toward Illumi at the back, who’s breathing is so strangled that Silva can feel his own lungs pound. “He never told you that he was suicidal?”

“No.”

“Do you think Killua could have been suicidal and depressed, even though he didn’t tell you about it?”

“No,” Gon says.

“No?” Silva presses. “Why not?”

Gon shakes his head. “Because,” he says, “Killua never wanted to kill himself.”

“But,” Silva counters, “didn’t you just say that he wasn’t happy? Wouldn’t that indicate that maybe he didn’t want to live anymore?”

“I guess . . .”

“Yes or no would do, Mr. Freecs.”

“Yes,” Gon sighs.

“You said that you told each other everything.”

“Yes.”

“And yet,” Silva continues, “he never told you _every detail_ about his family life, correct? He never elaborated about what he felt with his family, didn’t he?”

“No,” Gon whispers.

“Then, wouldn’t that mean that even if he didn’t tell you that he was suicidal and depressed, it’s possible that he _was_?”

Gon draws a shaky breath. “Yeah. I guess.”

“ _And_ wouldn’t that mean that he was keeping secrets from you? That you didn’t know everything about his life?”

“Yeah,” Gon murmurs. He wipes at the corner of his eye, burying his quivering hands in between his thighs.

“Then, you don’t really know everything about Killua, don’t you? You’re not sure whether Killua was really suicidal or not?”

“No,” Gon says, averting his eyes to the ground. “I guess not.”

“No further questions.”

 

~***~

 

The entire courtroom shudders as soon as Gon Freecs gets off the stand. Illumi watches him walk into the adjourning room, his eyes breaking away from Gon when his father brushes him on the arm.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs. “It’s almost over.”

“Is it our turn now?” Illumi whispers, just as Kaede Ito begins to stand.

“Your Honor,” she says. “The prosecution rests.”

Illumi stares down at his free wrists, knowing fully well that in a few minutes, it won’t stay this way. He clasps his fingers together like the twirl of an ocean, holding on for deal life.

 

~***~

 

Chrollo can almost feel the hum of the jagged rocks brush the tips of his feet. He lets his toes wiggle against the wind, his feet bare over the flaps over the obscure water below the bridge. He’s holding on tight to the railings. His body is fit securely in between the steel bars. His fingers are wound around the rods, his knuckles bulging in desperation as his breath catches at the knick of his throat. When he closes his eyes, he imagines cars speeding down the road, the movement pushing him into the coast.

He’s been hanging out in the bridge for the past months now. His skin is attracted to it. He can’t seem to stop palming the rusting rail bars, the gravestone pebbling all the way across the city line. When he opens his mouth, he finds his throat confined with the smell of the ocean, lurking in between the light fringes of his fingers. Chrollo closes his eyes as another wave of wind kisses his neck.

He doesn’t realize that someone is walking toward him until he can feel something hot in the middle of his chest. He doesn’t move his head; he already knows who’s coming toward him.

Hisoka manages to squeeze himself in between the bars next to him, his head bumping against the metal railings. He curses under his breath before he slips his head out of the cramped space. “How the fuck do you even fit in this thing?”

“I’m not six inches tall.”

“Six and a half,” Hisoka corrects, grumbling. He releases a sigh, his breath fogging against the dark. He looks out into the darkened waters below the bridge, his golden eyes streaked with unmasked fear.

But Chrollo knows fully well that Hisoka isn’t afraid of heights. But his fingers are shuddering against the steel bars, and his breathing is uneven against the chatter of his teeth. Chrollo slinks his hand at the back of Hisoka’s shirt, tugging it slightly. That’s when he realizes it: Hisoka’s not afraid of heights; he’s afraid of falling.

“What do you think will happen,” Hisoka says, “when something drops off the bridge?”

Chrollo stares at Hisoka’s face before he sneakily tips off Hisoka’s loafers with his toes. Hisoka’s shoes slide off his feet with frightening ease, and they submerge deep into the murky waters. Hisoka’s body completely stops moving as he stares at the ripples hammering against the edges. He looks at Chrollo, his eyes completely empty.

“That would be me,” Chrollo says, “one day.”

“No, that was me,” Hisoka says, his voice strangled, “losing a part of myself, all because you refuse to swim.”

Chrollo rears back in surprise, unable to find the words he wants to lodge out of his throat. When he tries to reach for Hisoka, the man is already getting to his feet, diving out of the steel bars before Chrollo can touch him.

“Hisoka, wait,” Chrollo says, scrambling to follow him. His heart is bouncing like a rapid wave in his chest. He realizes for the first time that it’s beating someplace else. “Hisoka, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

Hisoka swings around, his mouth clipped into a tight line. There are rough edges around his face that makes him look a little older, more mature – the person Chrollo would never see in the future. “Are you sure about that, Chrollo? Because you sure as hell don’t care about me.”

This time, Chrollo stops in his tracks, completely caught off guard. His bare feet are cold against the coarse pavement of the road. “Is this what you’re mad at me about? Because you think that I don’t care about you?”

Hisoka’s eyes are fiercely stoned, his silence coming with a stronger backlash.

“This isn’t about you,” Chrollo says thickly. “This is about _me._ ”

“No, but that’s the thing,” Hisoka replies. There is a hard tic in his jaw as he tries to control his breathing. The veins on his arms are pounding. “If this were about me, it would’ve been a whole lot easier.” Hisoka stares at him hard, his eyes gashed like a bruise. “You tell me that you want me to find you, but I can’t do that when you’re someone I would lose.”

When Chrollo doesn’t respond, Hisoka continues to stomp off the bridge, leaving Chrollo to stare after him. Chrollo extends his arm, hoping that he could reach Hisoka before the man leaves, but the only thing Chrollo can see is the fog of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, this is super long, but I hope you like it. Please leave a comment. ~


	32. Just Once

Chapter Thirty-Two

 

December 2013

 

 

Illumi has never been to a museum before.

Despite the decent amount of paintings hung on the walls of the Zoldyck mansion, Illumi has never had the time to look at them. Most of them are coated with dark colors, pierced by the scales of the moon like a dimmed headlight. When Illumi takes a look at them, he can’t seem to concentrate on what he’s seeing. When Illumi sees art, he feels absolutely nothing.

But now, as he follows Hisoka into the entrance of the Kukuroo museum, he can’t seem to take his eyes off the man’s body. His eyes are skimming the swells of Hisoka’s veins at the top of his hands, the bulge of his knuckles, the way he twists his wrist when he grabs for Illumi’s. Illumi finds himself fascinated with the perfect wishbone of Hisoka’s jaw, the way his golden eyes are navigating through the crowded hallway. Hisoka looks back at Illumi with wonder, and Illumi once again realizes his mistake: Every time he looks at Hisoka, Illumi can feel an ache in his chest the size of his fist, and an ocean wells at his throat until their lips connect.

All this time, Illumi has been looking at art himself.

Hisoka gestures to the painting on the wall, blocked by a leather cord. His smile grows like ivy when he looks at the painting, but the moment he places his gaze on Illumi, his eyes are the ones grinning. “This is The Astronomer by Johannes Vermeer,” Hisoka announces. “This was painted during the Dutch Golden Age, at 1668.”

The walls are coated with brown, the cabinet lying against it a different shade – darker and more profound. There are books laid on top of the cabinet, painted with a lighter color of flesh, nearly blending with the dust on the shelf. There is a man sitting on a chair, his dark teal garment wrinkled against the bend of his body. His fingers are touching a portion of the globe in front of him, his other hand gripping the end of the table. The table is draped with a green cloth, stitched leaves attached to the fabric, nearly the same color as the man’s clothing. The window is gleaming over his face.

Illumi stares at the painting in front of him, analyzing the use of colors the way Hisoka has told him about when he started to rant about not getting the palettes right. He can still hear Hisoka’s voice over the phone receiver like the gentle coil of a wave, lapping over his ears like a shell.

“It looks . . .” Illumi starts.

“Dull,” Hisoka finishes. “The colors have a nice blend, although they don’t have darker or lighter shades. It’s just that – color. It’s like he was playing it safe.”

“But you like it.”

Hisoka lets a smile escape his lips. “Yeah. I like it. It’s simple. But it’s clear.”

“What does the painting mean?”

“Honestly? I don’t understand it myself,” Hisoka admits. “But there’s another painting made by the same artist – The Geographer. I like to think that . . .” His voice trails off like a slow flash before Hisoka shakes his head, regaining himself. His voice is so soft that Illumi leans forward. “I like to think that they’re both trying to find something, that they’re trying to figure out what all of this means.”

“This?” Illumi presses, waiting for Hisoka to say more. Hearing the man talk about art makes his chest wane over, like his voice is a fire rekindled.

“What we’ve lost,” Hisoka murmurs. “What we can’t seem to find. Isn’t it ironic,” Hisoka breathes, “how we lose something before we can fully have it?” Hisoka looks at Illumi, his eyes wandering like a ghost. Illumi squeezes his hand, hoping that Hisoka hasn’t ventured too far off. Hisoka’s eyes jolt awake, and he blinks the glassy texture of his eyes before he leads Illumi to another painting.

Illumi presses his lips together to keep himself from questioning.

There is a part in his chest that knows he should ask Hisoka what he’s feeling, but he knows that the man will never say anything. Whenever Illumi tries to push his hand through the blockade of Hisoka’s body, his fingers end up scouring, searching for a hole that might give him the key. But when he pulls his hand out, he ends up with nothing. Even now, as Illumi examines the light span of Hisoka’s back like a weaved sculpture, he can’t seem to find what he’s looking for.

Hisoka stops in front of a smaller frame. Illumi notices his eyes going dark, the golden smudge of his pupils turning into bronze. Hisoka nods at the painting. “The Lovers, painted by Rene Magritte in 1928.”

Illumi turns his attention to the white-veiled lovers in front of him, his eyes drawn to their connected lips, his mind whirring as he tries to process why their faces are hiding. There is a blue wall behind them, turning paler as the color reaches down. There is another wall at the corner of the man’s back, marbled like the color of bricked buildings. His eyes narrow in closer to the painting, focusing on the veil as he realizes that the sheets must be connected, instead of two separate fabrics. On the woman’s side of the cloth, there seems to be a creased claw mark taking shape, as if the man is gripping the woman’s head.

“What does it mean?” Illumi says, breathless.

Hisoka clears his throat. “Love and death,” he says. “It means that love and death are connected. See that blue wall that’s closer to the woman? It means life. And the red wall means love, passion. The man represents death, and he stands closer to the red wall. The woman, on the other hand, means life. But the best thing about the painting is the white veil. It means innocence.”

As Illumi listens to Hisoka talk, something opens up in his chest the size of a cavern. Illumi fills it with Hisoka’s words, his voice chiming in his chest until Illumi can memorize everything he’s ever said. He stares at the gap of Hisoka’s teeth, the streak of pink on his lips, the way his throat looks like it’s suffocating. And he reaches for the back of Hisoka’s head, bringing the man’s face closer to his.

Their lips connect like speckled fingers, painted with so much desperation that Illumi has to remind himself to swim, because he knows that Hisoka will surely drown him. When they pull away, Hisoka’s breathing is more uneven, shallow and dotted with gasping lips. And Illumi finds himself wondering whether he’s given Hisoka oxygen, or if he has simply taken more away.

“We kissed,” Hisoka breathes softly, “in front of a painting of two lovers kissing. How ironic.”

That makes Illumi’s face soak with color, and he gently pushes Hisoka away. He hides his cheek with the back of his hand, his knuckles grazing his face until he stops heating up. When Hisoka smirks at him, Illumi knows that the blood rush won’t stop. “Let’s go to another painting,” Illumi suggests, his voice coming weak from his chest.

Hisoka nods, his smirk twitching as he grasps Illumi’s wrist again. He leads Illumi to another hall; this time, most of the room is filled with sculptures. But Hisoka’s eyes are drawn fiercely to the painting at the side. Illumi looks at the caption below the frame, and he immediately knows that this is one of Hisoka’s favorites.

There is a naked woman painted on the canvas. The colors used are plain, almost like a sketch. Her hair is wringed at the back, curling against the bend of her spine. Her face is covered with her arms; her body crouched into a fetal position. She has a bump on her stomach, her breasts drooping against the large lump. Her body looks used and worn out, as if she’s a sweater who’s been stretched too thin. There are gnarled roots on the ground, with sharp twigs and grasses growing like weeds.

“Sorrow,” Hisoka says, “by Vincent Van Gogh. It was painted in 1882. It was about a woman – Sien Hoornik – who was pregnant, a prostitute at the time. Van Gogh took pity on her and helped her live, giving her a home, food, clothes. He even considered marrying her. But she became a prostitute again, and Van Gogh couldn’t find ways to help her. So, he left.”

“She looks hopeless.”

“I think that was the point of the painting – a woman drained from life itself.” Hisoka smiles a little. “I guess we can all relate to that, eh?” Illumi watches Hisoka’s eyes turn into a light shade of yellow, erasing the natural brazen tint, dampening the veins on his eyelids. Illumi looks back at the painting, and wonders why he’s seeing Hisoka’s face, instead. Illumi squeezes Hisoka’s hand, hoping that the man will somehow come back to him, but when Illumi swallows in his breath, he can only taste a bitter smoke of emptiness.

“Hisoka,” Illumi says, yanking Hisoka’s hand to pull him closer. “Take us back to your apartment.”

Hisoka blinks at him. “But we just got here.”

“Please,” Illumi answers, knowing that that one word is enough to make Hisoka give in. The man stares at him before he releases a sigh of defeat. He tugs Illumi out of the room, and Illumi stumbles to follow him. He closes his eyes, letting Hisoka guide him out of the museum, letting Hisoka navigate Illumi back home.

 

~***~

 

Machi’s anger has diffused into dry resentment.

When Hisoka returned home last night, Machi stomped over to his apartment like a hurricane, banging the door with so much seething anger that Hisoka had to back away. Machi grabbed him by the collar and checked his temperature, but to her surprise, his fever has gone dry, replaced with the natural warmth of his skin. His eyes were tired, but there was a lingering smile on his face that made her bones spill over like alcohol. When Machi leaned in to brush his lips with hers, she found another name stuck at the cracks of his teeth.

She found Illumi at the base of his lips, erasing whatever desperate mark Machi has left him. She didn’t think that Hisoka would wash it out that easily.

Now, she’s sitting in front of the television, a bottle of beer in her hand. Beside her, Phinks is trying very hard not to stare at her bare legs, but he’s already placed a pillow on his lap, just in case. Machi gathers her body close together as she dips another fill of alcohol down her throat. She likes to think that it’s burning all the remains of Hisoka’s presence out of her chest, but even she knows that she can’t pretend.

“You’re thinking of him again, aren’t you?” Phinks asks, nudging her by the elbow.

Machi scowls in response and pulls her arm away. “No. Like heck, I’m thinking about him.”

“Sure you’re not,” Phinks says, swallowing down another gulp of beer. He turns to Machi when he feels her glare at him. He laughs loudly, dipping his head back. “Okay. You know what you look like when you think about him?”

“What?” she grumbles.

Phinks contorts his face into one of worry and anger, before he visualizes it into longing – a look so sharp that it leaves Machi hanging by the tips of her teeth. She looks away before a sob breaks out of her lips. There is an ache in her chest that makes her whole heart stumble into a frightening leap, and it clogs the tunnel of her throat until she no longer feels like she’s breathing.

This is the truth that she has started to accept: how can she catch something that has already fallen?

“Hey, Machi, don’t have _that_ look,” Phinks says, shouldering her until she looks at him.

Machi rolls her eyes. “ _What_ look?”

Phinks’ eyes soften, and Machi almost thinks that he’s about to say something as melodic as his expression. But he turns his mouth into a scowl before Machi can mentally take a picture. “That look,” he says resentfully, “where you look like you’re in love. It’s disgusting.”

Machi narrows her eyes and steals the beer bottle from his hands, gulping it down her throat before Phinks can get it back. “You’re an asshole,” she comments, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “A real asshole. This is why you’re not in a relationship.”

“Yeah?” Phinks says drily. “Now, why is that?”

“Because,” Machi says sweetly, starting to get on her feet, “you keep on chasing after a girl who belongs to someone else.”  

She doesn’t need to hear what Phinks has to say next; she already knows what’s running in his head: _“Aren’t you doing the exact same thing to yourself?”_

 

~***~

 

“Just make yourself at home.”

The last time Illumi has been in Hisoka’s apartment, he’s smelled something different – a sweet tang that corrodes his nostrils until his chest has been seared. It envelops the usual scent of smoke and paint – all the things Illumi can now taste out of memory. But as he enters Hisoka’s apartment again, the smell of lemon strokes his neck until his lungs are stifling. Illumi glances at Hisoka and realizes for the first time that the man also smells completely different.

He settles himself on the couch as Hisoka clears up the living room, getting rid of the clothes lying on the floor, the boxers limp against the carpet. He notices the strawberry designs of one of Hisoka’s boxers and smiles. “You like strawberries,” Illumi says when Hisoka shoots the underwear into the hamper.

“I love strawberries,” Hisoka admits. “Machi gave that to me for my birthday.”

At the sound of her name, Illumi’s body smothers like smoke, his bones mangling together like roots. There’s something in his throat that makes it harder to speak, and when he clutches at the hem of his pants, the veins on his wrists mock him with the shape of her lips. He twists his arm over and pretends that his heart isn’t scalded with the way Hisoka says her name, as if it’s a word that’s meant to be kept safe.

“Illumi,” Hisoka says. “You okay?”

Illumi blinks at him before clearing his throat, erasing the cloud from his face before Hisoka could notice his eyes darkening. “Yes. I’m fine. What do you want for your birthday?”

At that, Hisoka lifts an eyebrow in surprise. “My birthday? My birthday is months away.”

“I know. But what do you want for your birthday?”

Hisoka ventures around the living room and stares at the canvas in front of him. A new painting is splattered – the colors are messed up, singing into the page, but the moment Illumi looks at it, the hair on his arms stand erect, and a chill creeps all the way to the soft line of his neck.

“You,” Hisoka says softly, just as the door creaks open. “I want you.”

Before Illumi could think to question him, Machi saunters into the room, and Hisoka turns toward her. Illumi watches them meet at the center like stardust, their fingers so thoroughly linked that not even Illumi can get in between them.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka’s whole body convulses to life when his eyes land on Machi. He has to restrain his hands from touching her, from draping his fingers over her wrists like a navigation page, because he knows that Machi is the only one who could find what he’s been missing when he can’t even locate it himself. He stares at the tired frown on her lips and immediately pretends that he hasn’t noticed.

“You’ve been going out lately,” Machi says. “You know that you’re sick.”

Hisoka averts his eyes to the carpet. “I took my medicine. You have nothing to worry about.”

“You took your medicine,” Machi says, her voice a sharp sting. “That doesn’t mean that you’re getting better, Hisoka. It’s cold out there, and your fever’s just going to get worse.”

“It’s not,” Hisoka insists. “You checked my temperature last time and you told me that I was fine.”

“But I didn’t tell you to fucking leave the apartment, asshole!”

Hisoka steps back at Machi’s outburst, her voice setting a deep nest in his palms like the delicate wing of a bird. He watches her teem with anger and hurt, the glacier of her eyes dulling with ember. He resists the urge to wrap her with his body and press their chests together until she can feel his heart beating her name. But there’s a barrier in between them that neither of them can perfectly breach – and both of them know that if they try, they will only wound up with incurable bruises.

Hisoka takes a look at the puncture of her veins at her wrists and wonders whether he’s the source of it.

“Where have you been, anyway?” Machi scowls. “What reason do you have to go out?”

Hisoka stares at her, and finally gestures at Illumi. He’s still seated at the couch, pretending that he’s not listening to their conversation. Machi looks at him, schooling her face into a blank expression. She nods tightly, the pain in her eyes evident. Hisoka closes his own, so that he doesn’t have to see it.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Enjoy, Hisoka.” She exits out of the room before Hisoka can say anything else. She bangs the door behind her.

He watches her leave, and then he walks back to Illumi, setting himself on the armrest. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “You know how can she be.”

“She cares about you,” Illumi says. “You can’t blame her for that.”

Hisoka shrugs, his body squeezed like a piston. “Guess not.”

“You’re sick,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you were sick.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Was that why you were bleeding? Was that why you went to the bathroom?”

Hisoka’s eyes turn into steel. “It’s not important, Illumi. You didn’t need to know.”

“I didn’t need to know,” Illumi repeats, looking up at him, “or you didn’t want me to?”

Hisoka’s eyes pierce him on his seat. His heart is as dry as his throat. When Illumi opens his mouth to speak, Hisoka reaches down to cup the back of Illumi’s head, weaving his fingers through Illumi’s hair. He brings their lips together, feeling the sun roll over their shoulders and into the palm of Illumi’s hands. Illumi breathes into him, his tongue skimming over Hisoka’s teeth like he’s trying to find something. Hisoka kisses him harder, his breath turning into a scar.

And that’s when he knows that Illumi can’t find something Hisoka has already given up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! It's almost finished. ~ I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a review or comment! Thank you. ~ :)


	33. Obsolete

Chapter Thirty-Three

 

December 2013

 

 

The salt punctures through his skin like a grain, seeping into the strands of his hair until Hisoka’s mouth smells of the ocean. The waves are lapping like the saunter of horses, galloping across the ridges of the waters. It ambles on the coastline of the ocean, scrubbing off the wedge of footprints on the sand. Hisoka closes his eyes and listens to the bays of the water roving with deep exhales. His own chest follows the movement as he takes in a whiff of the night scrawling into the car. He imagines the moon diving headfirst on the pickup truck, so that she could roll Hisoka’s shoulders and land on Illumi’s begging palms.

Even when Illumi is quiet, Hisoka knows what he wants.

Hisoka has brought Illumi to the beach, a secluded area with not enough palm trees. There is a dock found near the jagged cliff, a boat wired to the stand to keep it from floating away. The cliff is jabbing at the North Star like a navigation point. There is an old lighthouse placed on top, its rusty lights dim and blinking against the dark pressure of the waters. He clasps his hands together and watches his fingers diffuse. If he were on a boat, he would never find the shore. But he also knows that it’s not difficult to find a home; he just has to know what he’s searching for.

Beside him, Illumi takes a deep breath. He shifts in his seat, slipping his hands underneath his thighs to keep it from shaking. “What,” he says, his voice uneasy, “are we doing here?”

Hisoka turns to him, his expression carefully blank. “I thought you’d like to go someplace quiet.”

Illumi shakes his head. “My heartbeat is too loud. I can hear it – pounding.”

 _Well,_ Hisoka thinks, _that’s not my problem._ Almost immediately, he looks at himself in the rearview mirror, alarmed at the thought that has pulped in his mind. He looks at Illumi’s face, taking in the shallow breaths, the darkened features, the gaping wound of his lips. He looks at Illumi and sees someone completely different.

Hisoka inhales, his chest bloating with the words he’s been swallowing. “Are you nervous?”

“I don’t know,” Illumi admits. “I’m scared.”

“Why are you scared?”

“Because,” Illumi says, looking straight at Hisoka, his wide eyes as grim as a Cheshire smile, “there’s a bridge between us, but neither of us wants to connect. What will happen if it no longer exists?”

Hisoka stares at him, his eyes riled with surprise at Illumi’s statement. “That’s easy,” he says softly. “We just build a new one.”

“But what if,” Illumi says, “we can’t?”

Hisoka doesn’t say anything, afraid that the words will rise like bile up his throat, afraid that the letters will flush down the ocean before he could completely get it out. Instead, he clasps Illumi by the back of his neck, bringing the man’s lips against the bowstring of his mouth. Their breaths smog the windows of the car, static playing like the tune to Debussy in the spindle of their hearts.

Slowly and carefully, Hisoka pries open his love.

 

~***~

 

They have moved to the back of the pickup truck with astonishing ease, their bodies squeezing together as they lay on top of the comforter Hisoka has already prepared. Illumi’s body sinks into the sheets like it’s enveloping him, stretching out its arms to prevent Illumi from fading. As Hisoka steadies his elbows on both sides of Illumi’s body, Illumi can feel his senses stirring into place – ferreting for an anchor before he swims away. He clutches on to Hisoka, his fingers quivering as he holds on.

His hold turns tighter when Hisoka begins to undo his shirt, making his skin feel like a thread – one more pull, and Hisoka will absolutely unravel him. Once the buttons are off, Hisoka easily shrugs the clothing off Illumi’s shoulders, tossing them to the side. Illumi has the instinctive urge to hide himself from Hisoka’s gaze, but Hisoka pins him, narrows him down to the sheets like a captive. Illumi feels a gentle ghost of a hand curl over his wrists, leaving his skin bare and flushed against Hisoka’s fingertips. He arcs his neck, his skin stinging as Hisoka’s lips settle over his throat.

His eyes scrape over Illumi’s muscles, the revealing plain of his stomach. His golden hues make Illumi squirm, his fingers coiling around the fabric of Hisoka’s shirt in yearning. His breath thickens when Hisoka lifts up his face, his eyes unnaturally pale.

“Are you sure about this?” Hisoka whispers. He traces the edges of Illumi’s face with his fingertips, as if he’s mapping out the fastest route to Illumi’s chest.

Illumi glances up at him. “Yes,” he says softly. “I am.”

Hisoka nods tightly. He crawls downward, his mouth tracking down the railroad of Illumi’s body, leaving teeth marks on the places he has kissed. His teeth reach the leather binding of Illumi’s belt buckle. Illumi nearly arches his back, his hips straining to stay still. Hisoka’s hands fumble with the clasp, and he yanks Illumi’s pants to his ankles. A gasp is thrown out of Illumi’s throat like a tender vial. Hisoka’s mouth opens his response, inhaling the smoke into his teeth like a desperate ache.

The moon is a crescent scar over Hisoka’s face as he pulls his shirt off of his body. Illumi watches the smooth muscles move like fleshed craters, with Hisoka’s secrets spilling out like geysers. Hisoka bends forward, steadying himself with an arm. Illumi has seen Hisoka’s face up close; of course he has. Yet as the moon, sloe-eyed, twitches over Hisoka’s skin like the brand of a lost lover, Illumi can’t help but try to locate something in the pockets of Hisoka’s body.

Illumi searches in the nook of his elbow, the damp portion of his neck, the perch of his collarbones where one of his secrets has been found buried. Illumi can see the ignition of embers in the sails of his chest, making his fingers tremble with excitement.

But as soon as he opens his palms, he stares at the same stretch of lines – and he wonders whether Hisoka is someone he can never truly find.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka’s mind is reeling, his thoughts lurking like a shadow beneath his breath. He scrubs his tongue over the roof of his mouth as his fingers linger over Illumi’s body like a clam, luring Illumi’s skin and catches it firmly in his hands. His fingers crest over Illumi’s ribcage, feeling the man shudder from the nails grating against his chest. Illumi’s mouth is rounded so perfectly that Hisoka pictures the moon orbiting around his teeth. He captures Illumi’s mouth in his, and he isn’t surprised when he finds the grappling dome of a crescent.

They have already gotten rid of their clothing, erasing the temporary marks from their skin like a disease. Illumi’s skin has blossomed underneath him, their thighs bridging together like hooked lovers. Hisoka’s bulge is pressed against Illumi’s thigh, and the man contracts around him, his fingers clutching tightly to Hisoka’s arms for support. Hisoka lifts himself upward.

“Are you sure that you want to do this?” Hisoka whispers, feeling the moon glide across his back like it’s creating a star map. “You know that you can still go back.”

Illumi’s throat is vibrating, his mouth quivering as he shapes the words into Hisoka’s jaw. “I’m sure.”

Hisoka nods tightly before he guides Illumi’s shoulders with the wren of his open palms. Illumi is now lying on his stomach. He’s breathing so heavily that Hisoka has to press his mouth against the back of Illumi’s neck, inhaling the fear that has been paged into him. He lets his fingers skim over the sculpted memory of Illumi’s back, sure that if he doesn’t jot it down in his head, he may not be able to remember it – this, _Illumi_. But as they flutter over the swell of his backbones, a wrenching force drives him into hiding, and he retrieves his hand before Illumi can swallow it.

Hisoka suddenly has an overwhelming urge to be inside him – a feeling so gripping that it makes his throat raw with smoke. He holds Illumi’s waist, and without warning, he thrusts into him. Illumi’s body fissures, a groan the size of the moon rolling off from his throat. Hisoka moves with turbulence, as if he has caught a storm in his body. His fingernails are prodding at Illumi’s hips. He finds his body burning, as his rhythm gets stronger, his hands scouring over Illumi’s skin until his own hands have gotten a fever.

Illumi is scratching at the sheets, his breathing unsteady as he tries to lift his head. His hair plows down his shoulders, sticking to the wet texture of his face. Hisoka’s mouth slinks over Illumi’s shoulders, the road of his back, and the damp recollection of his neck – and there, he finds something else. Something that makes their bodies twist at a fulcrum, so engrossed in each other’s skin that even their moans are connecting.

But Hisoka can feel his entire body going erratic. Black ink is spilling from the hidden jabs of his teeth, from the scars he’s been trying to mend. It pokes out like a needle, releasing the smoke of secrets into the cloak of the shore. Hisoka bends forward, letting his chest pad over Illumi’s back.

The moon is watching them, the waters imitating their movements as they lash out at the shore. Every open scrape, blistered bruise, every wounded kiss leaves Hisoka crooning for more. But as soon as their lips meet at the middle, another stab comes at the core of his chest, making him rock forward. Their bodies are pressed against the glass windows, their love fogging the air.

Illumi’s gasps fill the air as Hisoka’s nose tingles from the smell of sex leering out from their bodies. There is the lingering scent of the ocean seeping out of Illumi’s skin. But beneath the salty fragment, Hisoka senses something else – a scent yanking out the reaming secrets from his throat, a scent that makes his chest wrench together until there’s no longer space for his heart to move. It dwells even in the tightest corners of his body, where Illumi’s name could never perfectly fit. Not when Hisoka already has another inside it.

Hisoka closes his eyes as a muffled sob rolls out of his mouth. He breaks backward before Illumi can notice the sound circling like a hawk in his throat. Hisoka buries his face against the sweat bubbling down Illumi’s neck, hearing his name thud at Illumi’s veins. He can feel his body consuming the dusk that Illumi has set on his temples, on the dams of his lips, on the smoke of his teeth.

And his cry makes the waves sound fainter, as if there’s nothing more agonizing than drowning in a ghost.

 

~***~

 

The waves are gentle now, pristine over the glassy shores of the beach. They tumble forward with drifting eagerness, washing the footsteps that ghosts have made. Hisoka listens to the rumbling beat of the ocean as his fingers drag across the page with languid movements. His eyes are drawn to Illumi’s body, cocooned at the other side of the truck. The sheets are gathered on his lap, but portions of his thighs are bare and pink. His hair is slickened against his forehead. Soft and pillowed strands are sticking to his chest.

Hisoka can’t seem to take his eyes off Illumi’s body, adorned with the letters of his name.

Hisoka begins to carelessly outline Illumi’s body, his eyes glancing at the page to check whether he’s doing the correct position. Illumi’s muscles look tired as he fiddles with the sheets. Hisoka sketches the sheets darker on Illumi’s lap, the blanket bigger and thicker with black. Hisoka blinks as the image starts to distort, his fingers sliding out of his control – the sheets are now gaping open, with its hinges raw and wide. It foils around Illumi’s body like an ocean wave, drowning Illumi before Hisoka could ever save him. Illumi’s body is now raw with darkness, making Hisoka’s heart stumble wide open.

He flips to a new page, his heartbeat startlingly gyrating in his chest. This time, he focuses on Illumi’s face, making sure that he can actually get it correctly. The sketch yarns out of the page with ease, but the moment his fingers begin to draw out Illumi’s body, his knuckles joint out. His breathing sharpens as his fingers splay around the sketch like a storm, ridding Hisoka total control of his bones.

“Hisoka,” Illumi says. “May I bother you for a second?”

Hisoka glances upward, ignoring the sweat cooling on Illumi’s skin like ice shards. He glances at the moist corners of Illumi’s body, and he clenches his fists to keep himself from ravaging more of him. His chest is already dank with what Illumi has given him, ripping whatever is left of Hisoka’s chest. He’s sure that if he consumes more, he will absolutely be suffocated.

“Sure. What is it?”

“Whose truck is this?”

Hisoka blinks at the question, and he glances at the headlights looming over the sand. The red blinker is beeping. “It’s a friend’s,” Hisoka finally says. “I borrowed it from him.”

“Does he know that you’re here?”

Hisoka stares at Illumi, clearly stunned by his sudden curiosity. But he smiles a little, letting the darkness pump over their bodies. “Yeah,” he says. “He knows that I’m here.”

“Does he know who you’re with?” Illumi asks, lifting the sheets closer to him. “Does he know who I am?”

Hisoka doesn’t break his gaze, even when Illumi’s eyes are banking into him. He keeps his expression calm as a thought jostles over his head:

_Sometimes, I don’t think you’re any different._

 

~***~

 

There is a resonance of silence as Hisoka falls asleep on the comforter. Illumi watches the gentle breathing of his chest, his lips fogging over as he sucks in a breath. Hisoka’s cheeks are tinted pink, the silver linings of his eyelashes curling with perfect proximity. As Illumi’s eyes drift over the side of Hisoka’s ribcage, the man stirs, as if he can sense that Illumi has been staring.

Illumi crawls over to Hisoka’s side of the truck, palming his sketchpad. He checks whether Hisoka is fully asleep before he slowly opens it. The first page is already sketched with intricacy – a drawing of the curtains on Hisoka’s balcony, the sun blanking against the floorboards, its light waving through the steel bars. Illumi doesn’t need to compare Hisoka’s sketch and the real thing; he already knows that he won’t find anything different.

The second sketch is one of a girl on a train. Her freckles are dotted across her face like stardust. The plump of her cheeks are tipped with bulging cheekbones. The squint of her eyes is the size of Illumi’s thumb, and he can almost imagine the girl turning toward him. He can imagine the girl steering her way over to Hisoka’s presence, enticed by the idea of being sketched.

The third sketch is more intriguing – there is a piano plastered to the rusty floors, the wooden hinges nearly gaping open. The keys are looped with vines and tiny leaves, growing in between the spaces of the piano with root-like fingers. The entire piano is tethered with plants, climbing around the piano until even Illumi thinks that it’s ceasing to breathe. There is no music sheet, but Illumi can feel a dark and melancholic tune playing in the bass of his ears.

Illumi flips through the sketches, his eyes scanning the details that Hisoka has laid out on the page. Each time, Illumi finds his throat constricting with the breath he’s been holding. His fingers brush across the page, as if he can bring whatever art Hisoka has made. _But what will I do with it,_ Illumi thinks, _when I already have him?_

But when his eyes land on one of the pages of Hisoka’s sketchbook, he suddenly stops short. Drawn with delicate intensity is Machi’s random features – her hair pulled back, strands falling in front of her eyes like a water bank; her smile budded and warm, the first rising of a solace; the glint of her eyes light and shaded with Hisoka’s name stitched on her cheeks; her love, sketched in everything.

There’s something about this particular page that’s making it harder for Illumi to ignore. There is a lingering sense that he’s missing something. That his fingers are purging out the words for him to see but he’s far too afraid to know what it is. He swallows hard, flipping the page to another one before the feeling boils in the cavern of his throat.

But the moment he does, he regrets even wanting to know.

Hisoka’s sketches of him earlier tonight are smudged and unclear, messy and uncertain. His face is nearly unrecognizable, his dark hair curtaining his cheeks like he’s purposefully hiding. But that’s not what really catches his attention. Despite the bone structure, Illumi’s face is unnaturally blurry. The edges seem almost dull, lacking the lively pattern of Hisoka’s usual art. His face starts to garble together, his expressions alternating – from his calm reverie of his lips to the agony found at his cheeks.

As Illumi scans through the pages, bile rises up his throat, but he pushes it down before it could escape. His fingers walk through the pages, his fingers burning as they shake against the sketch. His expressions are becoming hollow, as if Hisoka has not been drawing him at all.

Illumi glances at Hisoka sleeping, tucked tight against the curl of the sheets. His lips are trembling from the air chilling into the pickup truck. Illumi stares at the last filled page of the sketchpad, not at all surprised when he sees a different face.

The expressions are sketched with pain, the lips drawn tight, and the eyes so dark and weary that Illumi’s heart bends back.

He closes the sketchbook just as Hisoka stirs awake. His face is cloudy with grogginess as his eyes settle on Illumi’s hands, preoccupied with something that belongs to him.

“My sketchpad,” Hisoka says, voice gruff. “You opened it.”

Illumi nods softly. “Yes. Your sketches are beautiful.”

Hisoka stares at him, his expression blank. For a frightening second, Illumi considers saying an apology for invading Hisoka’s privacy. But then, the man snorts out a reply. “Beautiful,” he says, chuckling. “Of course. Beautiful.”

“It is,” Illumi insists. “They’re beautiful.”

He shakes his head. “Beautiful things make me sad.”

That catches Illumi off guard. He swallows. “Why?”

Hisoka is quiet for a moment, waiting for Illumi’s question to rest over his lap like a gift. His mouth is kept in a neat line.

Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, Illumi can feel his heart pounding. His piercing eyes hold his in a thunder. A sad smile edges the fault lines of his lips.

Hisoka’s voice wavers as he begins to speak. He looks at Illumi, his face washed with pain as big as the sea. “Because,” he says, “I know I can never have them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is okay! Please leave reviews or comments. Thank you so much. :)


	34. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a flashback chapter. 
> 
> Trigger warning: death.

Chapter Thirty-Four

 

December 2011

 

 

Hisoka’s name ripples on his shoulders like the tangent of smoke, a moon slope guiding its way back home.

Chrollo watches Hisoka’s back flex as he stretches his arms over his head. He memorizes the great span of it – the wings unfurling from the peak of his backbones unto the centerfold of his spine. Hisoka’s hair is glinting red under the sunlight. The muscles bulge against the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, Chrollo can see the words tattooed on Hisoka’s skin: _stay, stay, stay._

It spreads like he’s pillaging ink.

They’ve been quiet ever since Hisoka has entered the apartment. The silence fills the room with so much extricate longing that Chrollo has to keep his distance from Hisoka’s body. He’s sure that if Hisoka touches him, he will absolutely unravel into something less – revealing all the secrets he never wants Hisoka to realize. He leans against the wall and watches the sun wave its light on the streets, reflecting its orb on the puddles forming.

Chrollo peers at the bottom, wondering whether Hisoka can catch him before he reaches the ground.

He wonders what will happen if anyone will come searching for him, knowing fully well that he won’t be found.

Hisoka turns toward him, the veins on his forehead throbbing as he stares at Chrollo’s face. “Are you ready?” Hisoka asks, his voice pained. “Are you sure about this?”

Chrollo considers this. He doesn’t know how to tell Hisoka that he’s been ready his whole life, that the gun under his pillowcase is nothing short of the quickest route out. His fingers have always been made of bullets, and he’s been hitting himself ever since. When his fingers clasp around the weapon, he feels like he’s finally someone different. He feels like he’s finally in the safest portion of a ratty pocket.

He’s hoping that it belongs to the man next to him.

Chrollo slowly veers his head in Hisoka’s direction. “Will you stop me,” he whispers, “if I say no?”

Hisoka’s face clouds over like a storm. It brews in his teeth with an aching spin, making Chrollo realize that maybe that what was Hisoka has been intending. Chrollo feels his heart wrench into a tighter fit, the gears in his bones working as they start to trample his ribcage. If his heart suddenly collapses, will anyone be able to mend it? Or will Chrollo have to go, knowing that something is missing?

“When?” Hisoka asks. He spins around, curling his arms over his body as if he’s preventing a sharper impact from hitting him. The golden patches of his eyes are sparking like wildfire, and Chrollo is a forest about to be devoured. “When are you going to do it?”

Chrollo stares down at the floor, spotting a smudge of ash swelling under his boot. “I don’t know.” 

“Sometimes,” Hisoka says, his voice mangled with the anger he’s chewing out, “I wonder how you can be so _calm_ about this when you know how much I’m hurting.”

Chrollo nods tightly, his eyes turning to the moon canting on Hisoka’s face. “But why would I be scared of something I want so badly?”

Something inside Hisoka snaps as his eyes turn pale, as if he’s gasping out whatever pain he’s taken in. As if he can’t bear the thought of taking Chrollo with him. Hisoka walks closer, closing the gap between them until their bodies are linked. Chrollo could feel Hisoka’s hands shake against the dome of his chest.

“Even when I need you,” Hisoka murmurs, “you turn to leave.”

He stares at Chrollo a while longer, letting the silence trim over their heads, before he walks away from sight. Chrollo waits for the door to slam close before his knees buckle over, making him lurch to his knees. His chest is wheezing out, his throat yanking him by his teeth. There is a ramming underneath his skin that’s making it hard for him to recover.

Chrollo’s face shadows, as he realizes for the first time that nothing hurts more than being abandoned.

 

~***~

 

Milluki has been sitting in front of the monitors for over an hour now.

He told the security that he’d take care of it, that he’d like to look at some of the tapes. Now, he’s searching for the recording of the night Killua’s apparent suicide has taken place. He slides the tape into the machine and watches the light blink. The monitor at the middle plays quietly, starting from the morning when everything was still okay.

Milluki watches his father enter the study, arranging his documents, his cases, and the files lounging on his desk. Back then, his father’s face was still smooth and relaxed, different from the creased expression he now has. His hair was still furnished silver, instead of the pale confetti he now sports. Milluki realizes with a startling jolt just how this case has affected his father, despite the calmness he shows at the dinner table.

He’s been conversing with Kikyo about how the case is going, the witnesses who are being brought, and the prosecutor’s attempt of getting him to give in to a plea. But all Milluki could focus on is how his brother is doing. Milluki hasn’t visited Illumi in prison for the fear that he might crumble. Even when Illumi’s presence isn’t in the house, Milluki could still hear the voices of the ghosts under the curve of his neck, patching their way through his chest.

It hovers inside him, making him unable to rest.

Milluki grabs the remote from the table and hits the fast forward button. He watches the screen turn into rushed static, the images blurring out before he sees something that catches his attention. He hits the pause button, and then presses play. The screen dissolves into Illumi pushing their father’s cabinet away from its original position. He sees Illumi hide behind the bookshelf before he returns back into sighting range.

Milluki scoots forward, concentrating on what his brother is holding.

In Illumi’s hands are a gun and a pack of six bullets. Illumi slides them into the packet and pushes it back into place.

Milluki stares as Illumi places the gun to his cheek, whispering something. He stays like that for a few more minutes before the door opens, revealing Killua as he enters the room. Milluki’s mind goes blank, and he immediately cuts off the video. He can feel his heart whirring against the pool of his chest, gloating past his stomach.

He snatches the tape from the player, tucking it in the pocket of his jeans.

He leaves the room, as if he has seen nothing.

 

~***~

 

Illumi never knows what to expect in a trial.

He has learned enough about law and court cases to predict what’s going to happen. Now that the prosecution has rested, it’s time for the defense to backfire. Silva has already told him what’s going to happen, but the more his father speaks, the shakier Illumi becomes. His hands are growing as numb as ice shards, prickling his fingertips until he has tasted blood. There’s moss in his teeth where his thoughts are brewing. They’re threatening to spill out of his lips, spoil in the open.

But Illumi knows fully well how to keep his secrets guarded.

The crowd fills in the courtroom, reporters snapping their cameras the moment their eyes settle on Illumi at the defense table. Illumi can feel his spine slacking even when the rest of his body is going rigid. His breathing sharpens when he feels a piercing stare dropping on the back of his neck. He slowly turns around to check, but he finds his eyelids closing, as if his body is preventing him from knowing the truth.

As if knowing that someone hates him will make it any more true.

His father suddenly settles in the seat beside him, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Silva says. “I had to deal with Milluki.”

“Milluki,” Illumi says. His eyebrows close together. “Is he all right?”

“I hope so,” Silva huffs. “He was getting jittery, which is usual before a testimony. But still, I hope he knows how important this is.”

Illumi remembers all the times Milluki has said nothing, how his brother has never gone to him for anything. He remembers the long nights where the house would be filled of their silence. He recalls the moments he has caught Milluki sneaking into the kitchen, and the times his brother has entered in on him in the music room, his fingers planted firmly to the keyboards like roots.

Even when Milluki has caught him, he has told never their mother anything, as if every little encounter has been treated as a secret.

He wonders if this time will be any different.

 

~***~

 

 

Silva has been hesitant about putting Milluki on the stand. His son has no experience in trials, nor does he know what to expect when it actually takes place. There’s also a chance that Kaede might blow his testimony into pieces. Milluki won’t be able to do anything but let it happen. Although, Silva would never allow it.

“Please state your name and address for the record.”

Milluki taps his sweating neck with a handkerchief. “Milluki Zoldyck. Kukuroo Mountain, Zoldyck mansion.”

Silva nods. “You know why you’re here today, correct?”

“Yes. My brother is the defendant.”

“I’m sure you were shocked when you heard the news.”

Milluki nods. “I was.”

“What did you do when it happened?”

“I couldn’t think properly, so I just went along with my mother into the ambulance. I could have stayed with the butlers, but my mom wanted someone to make sure Illumi was okay while you and mom took care of Killua.”

Silva clears his throat, covering his mouth with a fist. “During that time, you were with Illumi, taking care of him?”

“Not really,” Milluki admits. “I was only making sure that he wouldn’t get into trouble, but he disappeared pretty quickly after we arrived at the hospital.”

“Did you take a look at his face?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he grieved or pain?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Kaede Ito says. “He’s leading his witness.”

“Don’t lead your witness, Mr. Zoldyck.”

Silva smiles smoothly. “Yes, Your Honor.” He turns back to Milluki with the same easy expression, as if he’s not in the middle of a war. “What did you see on Illumi’s face? What expression was he making?”

Milluki looks down at his hands, his eyes shifting from the corner to the other side. “He looked like he was about to cry, like he was about to just break down.”

“Did he? Did he break down?”

“No,” Milluki answers. “He remained collected. That was what you always told him to do when he was nervous.”

“Did Illumi obey his parents – us?”

“Yes,” Milluki says. “Illumi has always followed the family’s orders, even if it’s not something he’d like to do. No matter what, his responsibilities came first.”

“Responsibilities,” Silva repeats. “Was Killua one of Illumi’s responsibilities?”

Milluki sighs softly, fiddling with his thumbs. “He was. Illumi was tasked to take care of him, to make sure Killua didn’t get into trouble.”

“Was Illumi a good brother to Killua?”

“Yes,” Milluki answers. “He was there for Killua. He helped Killua in his homework, projects, and problems in general. Killua asked him for help, and sometimes Illumi offered whenever he wasn’t too busy. He supported Killua in a way the rest of the family never could.”

“Are you and Illumi close?”

Milluki’s cheeks warm, his puffy face looking like a cherry under the bright gleam of the courtroom. “No,” he admits. “Illumi and I rarely talk.”

“So, you can say that Illumi didn’t just support Killua because he was family. He supported Killua because Illumi loved him.”

“That’s right.”

“Were Illumi and Killua close?”

Milluki exhales heavily, his breath catching the microphone. “They were,” he says. “They did everything together – or, well, nearly everything. They were always together at home, and sometimes they snuck out of the mansion.”

“How many hours did they spend together?”

“About four to five per night.”

“During those hours, did Illumi and Killua ever fight?”

“They bickered, sometimes, but nothing too unusual. They always became okay after.”

Silva nods, watching the jury’s curious faces take in Milluki’s answers. “What did they fight about?”

“Killua’s freedom,” Milluki says. “Killua was pretty rebellious, and he wanted his liberty more than anything. Same goes for Illumi, but he does a better job of hiding it. Killua was more outspoken.”

“Was Illumi the one restraining Killua from his freedom?”

“No, that would be our mother, Kikyo Zoldyck.”

“And Killua hated it?”

Milluki nods slightly. “He wanted an out more than anything.”

“But Illumi – was he ever open about the idea of getting his freedom?”

“They both wanted it,” Milluki replies. “But Killua talked about it, while Illumi simply mourned. Sometimes, Killua forced him to sneak out as well, just to get Illumi to know what it’s like outside.”

“But Illumi was hesitant about this?”

“Yes.”

“Yet he did it for Killua?”

“For Killua,” Milluki says, his eyes capturing his father’s in a heavy glaze, “he’d do anything.”

Silva paces in front of the jury. “So, you think Illumi would have done anything for Killua?”

“Yes.”

“Even helping him sneak out?”

“Sure.”

“Running away?”

“Yeah.”

“Rebelling?”

“Probably.”

“Getting a weapon?”

“Yes.”

“What about helping Killua kill himself?” Silva asks. “Could he have done that as well?”

There comes a screaming silence, hitting his ears like a bat. Silva urges Milluki to open his mouth as his son stares at the plane of his shoulder. He realizes only after Milluki’s eyes have strayed that his son has been looking at his own brother.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I have no doubt that he would.”

 

~***~

 

Milluki finds the prosecutor intimidating – with her tight bun, her determined face, and the stricken slash of her green eyes, it almost seems like she’s about to pull out a gun and shoot her questions until Milluki can’t find the words to answer. But he looks over at his father and reminds himself what’s at stake. No matter what happens, he has to be an asset.

“You were with Illumi after the accident took place?”

“Yes.”

Kaede Ito walks closer, making Milluki’s heart beat like a train track. “You said that it looked like he was about to fall apart?”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you ask him why?”

Milluki blinks at her, surprised at the question. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Milluki says slowly, “I already knew why: our brother was dead.”

“But you never asked him if maybe something else was wrong?”

Milluki doesn’t know where the prosecutor is going with this, or whether his father is about to object. The thing about being a witness is that you can fully prepare; your heart will still act as a frightened bird, about to take flight at the first sign of danger. The only problem is that Milluki is trapped in this cramped and empty space, and no one will be able to save him but himself.

“What else could be wrong?” Milluki asks. “Our brother was _dead_. Was that not bad enough for him?”

The prosecutor purses her lips. “Your Honor.”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Zoldyck.”

Milluki resists the urge to roll his eyes. “No.”

“So, you never asked him why he was upset,” Kaede says. “Could there be other reasons for it?”

Milluki shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Do you think that Illumi could have been upset,” the prosecutor continues, “because he just killed his own brother?”

His father is suddenly on his feet, his mouth breaking open like a moon crater. “Objection!”

The judge looks at the two attorneys, weighing his answer before speaking. “I’ll allow it.”

Milluki feels his throat going hollow as his lips near the microphone. He looks over at his brother, wishing he could wing Illumi an apology if ever he can’t be Illumi’s salvation. “Maybe.”

“Do you think that Illumi could have been upset because someone would find out about his mistake?”

Milluki feels another constriction happening. He takes one look at the prosecutor and feels like he’s about to vomit. “I don’t know.”

“Yes or no, Mr. Zoldyck.”

Milluki glances at his father. Silva is rough jawed, his teeth gritting against each other as he presses his lips, sticking his mouth together like he’s keeping something in. Milluki knows that if Silva objects, a wolf would appear. “No,” Milluki says tightly.

“No?” Kaede presses. “So, you think Illumi assumed that no one would find out about it?”

Before his father can object, Milluki is already answering. “Well,” he says. “Why would he be upset when he didn’t even do anything?”

 

~***~

 

Kaede Ito is sure now: every member of the Zoldyck family is nuts – and they’re going to make her go crazy. She can’t believe that even Illumi’s brother is convinced that Killua was suicidal, that Illumi is not to blame. The clues are all there, the evidence match up, so what are they not seeing?

But that’s the thing, she reminds herself.

She’s not only dealing with the Zoldycks; she’s dealing with a family. This is a bond that can’t stretch, because their bodies are so tightly rounded that neither one could escape. Maybe this is why Illumi looks like he’s suffocating when he’s sitting in the same room, maybe this is why he looks like he can’t bear to see it anymore.

Kaede watches Milluki go off the stand and proceed to the other room, where the other witnesses are waiting. The boy is fat and pudgy, but his face looks determined, as if he’ll do anything to save his brother.

The prosecutor glances down at her lap, at her adjoined fingers. She separates them too quickly because she knows fully well that they have never been complete – and no one will ever fill the spaces in between them.

Not even her own family.

 

~***~

 

His teeth are now made of ashtrays, smoking out whatever pain Chrollo has left with him. When he spits the remnants into his open palms, he finds traces of blood spooling into his hands, mapping out a road to the line of his wrists. Hisoka closes his hands into fists, and pretends that he’s not feeling anything. After all, that is what he’s always been doing so perfectly that not even Chrollo can notice that he’s already hurting.

Hisoka exits out of Chrollo’s apartment, his feet leaving fire trails on the steps. He ignores the scorching feeling igniting in his stomach, the heat slashing its way across his throat; he pretends that Chrollo’s name isn’t screaming in the uneven structure of his bones. But the moment he reaches the bottom of the staircase, his body collapses like a carcass.

His knees meet the ground with a cringing snap. He carries his weight with the base of his spine, curling like a root when he realizes that he’s only been losing time. The moon is spilling on his fingertips, tracing Chrollo’s presence like a secret. And when Hisoka brings his fist to his lips, a howl purges out of him.

One of his hands reaches for the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone. He calls the second number on his speed dial, waiting for the other person to pick up. “Machi,” he whispers. “I’m coming over.”

There’s a flooding silence at the other end of the line before her voice spins in the shell of his ear. “Why? I thought you’re with Chrollo.”

“Was,” Hisoka snorts, the sound coming off weak and forced. He wishes that he could retrieve the words back in his throat, so that Machi would not question the pain evident in his voice. He clears his throat, making sure that the next sentence doesn’t come out paved with ghosts. “He’s not being very good company tonight.”

“When was he ever good company?” Machi laughs softly.

 _Back when everything was still all right_ , Hisoka thinks. A stabbing pain arches in his head, hitting his temples like an arrow. He pushes his fingers against the pained spots, closing his eyes as he concentrates on Machi’s slow and even breathing, at the gentle glass of her heartbeat.

“So, can I come over?”

Another beat of silence rims them over. Hisoka finds himself looking over at the sun, the clouds covering its shape like it doesn’t want anyone else to know. He opens his hand, wondering if Machi’s name bears the same secret – Hisoka doesn’t want to reveal it.

“I don’t know,” she finally says. “What are we even going to do here?”

“Have fun. Make awful pastries. Bake. Sit on your couch. Pretend we’re like stars. Constellations, maybe. Watch a movie.” _Help me pretend_.

“Pretend we’re like stars,” Machi repeats. “Sounds fun.”

“Mhm,” Hisoka agrees. “I call dibs on Orion.”

Machi laughs softly. “I’m Artemis.”

“Now,” Hisoka murmurs, his voice swimming like a moon wave, “isn’t that ironic?”

 

~***~

 

Dr. Hoshi Miyako has an aura that spreads. Her eyes gleam under the dim lights of the courtroom. The air around her is bubbling, popping into the hands of the jury like an early offer of spring. Her smile faces the people, and immediately Silva feels like she’s catching every bit of their attention. The jury leans closer, their faces bright as they take in the heart-shaped face of the psychiatrist.

 _Well, good_ , Silva thinks, _because what we’re about to talk about is a little bit harder to explain._

Silva recites the doctor’s impressive credentials, making sure that the jury knows who they’re dealing with – unlike Kaede’s witnesses, this one is a real expert. Although, Silva admits that he can be a bit biased. Judge Puckett nods in approval once Silva is finished.

The defense attorney gathers himself in front of the stand, flipping his notes to the page where he and the doctor previously discussed about. While Silva can remember the interrogation like the back of his hand, he still doesn’t want to risk the chance of forgetting something. His heart feels like it’s about to crank wide open.

He clears his throat. “Dr. Miyako, I’m so glad to have you here today.”

The doctor’s smile flashes wider. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Zoldyck.”

Silva smiles back, his entire body warming. “So, doctor, we’re not experts like you in this field. So, would you mind giving us a background check about the term, euthanasia?”

“Certainly, Mr. Zoldyck.” Dr. Miyako scoots closer to the edge of her seat, her excitement balanced like a beam on her face. “Euthanasia, in simpler terms, is the act of deliberately killing someone in order to relieve suffering. It is a painless way of ending one’s life out of mercy. It is sometimes called assisted suicide.”

Although Silva’s eyes go dramatically wide, there’s nothing the doctor can say that can catch him off guard. He already knows every sentence that’s about to escape from Dr. Miyako’s mouth. “Killing someone?” Silva repeats. “Why, that sounds rather close to murder.”

“It does,” the doctor agrees. “But it’s fairly different from murder.”

“How, Doctor?”

“Well,” the doctor says, her whole face grinning, “euthanasia is killing someone out of mercy. Say, your loved one was sick. He was on life support. The chances of him surviving were slim. In order to get rid of the prolonged suffering, you cut off the life treatment. Murder, on the other hand, is the act of deliberately killing someone with malice, with no self defense.”

Silva nods, pretending to take in the explanation. “That’s very thin line to cross, Doctor.”

“It is,” she says. “People don’t usually see it until after it happens.”

“I see.” Silva flips to another page, the paper scribbled carelessly with everything the doctor has already said. “And what are the types of euthanasia, Doctor?”

Dr. Miyako holds up two fingers, wiggling them. “There are two types of euthanasia: active and passive. Active is where a person purposefully ends someone’s life. Passive is where a person causes death by stopping treatment to the sick, or withholding treatment that is necessary for the human life. In my example earlier, it’s the latter.”

“Are there other classifications, Doctor?”

“Why, yes, actually. There are also three other types.” This time, the doctor ejects another finger. “Voluntary euthanasia, non-voluntary, and involuntary. Voluntary euthanasia is where the person asks another to help kill himself. Non-voluntary is where a person is unable to give their consent. Life support, for example. They could be in a coma, or could be severely brain damaged, making them unable to give their permission. Involuntary euthanasia is where a person is killed despite their lack of agreement. In such circumstances, non-voluntary and involuntary euthanasia can also be counted as murder.”

Despite the heavy information given, the doctor has explained it clearly. Silva looks at the jury, relieved to see that they’re still listening. “Doctor,” Silva continues. “Do you know Illumi Zoldyck?”

“Yes. He’s the defendant.”

“And you’ve read his profile.”

“That’s right.”

“Have you interviewed him?” Silva asks.

Dr. Miyako nods. “I have.”

“And what did you get from the interview?”

“I asked him about his relationship with his brother. He gave very intelligent and sincere answers. It’s obvious that he loved his brother very much.”

“Enough to do anything for him?”

“Objection!” Kaede shoots up.

“I’ll allow it.”

When Silva gives the doctor a nod, Dr. Miyako smiles. “Yes. Most possibly.”

“Doctor, you know that Illumi helped Killua commit suicide.”

“Yes.”

“In your expert opinion, what classification of euthanasia does that fall under?”

Dr. Miyako’s eyes spark again, curiosity glistening on her eyelashes like emeralds. “It falls under voluntary euthanasia. Killua asked his brother to help himself, and although Illumi was not willing to do it, he loved Killua enough to assist.”

“Is this legal, Doctor?”

“Under certain criteria, yes.”

“Such as?”

“One: the person has given voluntary permission to end his life. Two: they have enough mental capacities to make a decision regarding their life. And third: it is agreed that the person is already suffering too much pain, and there’s nothing else they can do to improve one’s condition.”

 

“Doctor, did Killua give permission to end his life?”

“Yes.”

“Was he mentally stable enough to make that decision?”

“Yes.”

“Was he already suffering too much pain?”

“I believe so.”

Silva feels the smog from his chest fading, spilling out of his breath as he speaks his next sentence. “Then, in your expert opinion, Doctor, does Killua’s situation fall under these three criteria?”

“Yes, it does.”

“You said earlier that murder and euthanasia were vastly different,” Silva says. “In your expert opinion, which category does Killua’s death fall under?”

“I have no doubt, Mr. Zoldyck. It’s definitely categorized under euthanasia.”

Silva heaves a breath as the doctor captures the jury’s attention, making them listen so intently that nearly everyone in the courtroom is quiet. The only sound Silva can hear is the rapid thumping of Illumi’s heartbeat. Silva smiles at the doctor with gratitude before he returns to his seat.

“Your witness,” he says.

 

~***~

 

It’s hard to make an expert witness look like a bubbling fool, especially when the doctor already has the jury caught in her palms. Kaede walks up to the stand, bringing her own set of notes she’s gathered after hearing about the expert witness. Honestly, considering that this is Silva Zoldyck she’s fighting against, she doesn’t expect anything less.

The doctor greets her with the same even smile. Kaede finds herself unable to stop returning it, giving the doctor with a grin of her own. She opens her notes to the page she’s researched, glancing at the faces of the jury, hoping that they’ll listen to her counterattack with the same curiosity.

“Doctor, what are the methods of euthanasia?”

Dr. Miyako slowly leans back, her guard piling up in front of her like a wall. Even to Kaede, it’s obvious that the doctor is caught off guard.

“Well, Ms. Ito, there are four methods of euthanasia: the giving of drugs, injections, starvation and dehydration, and gases, plastic bags and the “peaceful pill.””

“What drugs are usually given, Doctor?”

“Barbiturates used to be fairly common back in the days, but now people can’t obtain that drug without a prescription. They’re highly lethal. Barbiturates such as Seconal and Nembutal are the most effective for a fast and painful death. Seconal is a strong sedative used to treat severe insomnia. These drugs are extremely hard to get. Other drugs are Propoxyphene, taken with Oxazepam; Amitriptyline, which takes about twelve to twenty-four hours to take place; and also Phenobarb.”

“What about injections, doctor?”

Dr. Miyako pulls the microphone closer to her lips. “Patients are usually given two shots. First is to make the patient comatose, and the second is to stop the heart. A coma is induced by intake of barbiturates, and then a muscle relaxant. The anoxemia caused from the muscle relaxant, results the person’s death.”

“What about starvation and dehydration?”

“Well, this is fairly easier, but it takes more time. They will reduce the intake of food and water, or withdraw it completely. This method is usually combined with Terminal Sedation.”

“Terminal Sedation?”

“Use of sedatives and analgesics, Ms. Ito. It’s for the necessary control of symptoms, such as intolerable pain, agitation and anxiety.”

“I see. And if they use this method, the person will die because of?”

“Dehydration.”

“What about the last method, Doctor? How does that work?”

Dr. Miyako licks her lips. “Most times, it’s carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Among these methods, Doctor, which one is the fastest?”

“Use of drugs.”

“And among these methods, Doctor, did you see the use of _guns_ listed?”

Silva is already on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor!”

“Overruled.”

Dr. Miyako glances at Silva, her smile curving into a frown. “No, but – ”

“So, the use of guns wasn’t included in the methods of euthanasia?”

The doctor’s face is grim. “No.”

“Then, in your _expert_ opinion, Doctor, could Killua’s death still be categorized as euthanasia if the use of guns wasn’t even in the methods?”

Before the doctor can answer, Kaede is already walking back to her seat, knowing fully well that she’s placed a brand new perspective. “Nothing further.”

 

~***~

 

Silva leaps from his seat the moment Kaede settles on hers. “Redirect, Your Honor,” he says. He stomps over to the stand, his eyes fuming. “Doctor, are these methods the only ways to commit euthanasia?”

“No. There are many others, although not as popular to a painless death.”

“Could Killua not have any access to drugs, and resort to a gun, instead?”

“Of course.”

“And you said that the most lethal drugs need prescription, making them hard to get.”

“Yes.”

“Could Killua not be able to wait for a week or more if he uses the method of starvation and dehydration?”

“It’s possible.”

“So, using the gun is the fastest and the most accessible way of killing himself?”

“Yes.”

“So, what you’re saying, Doctor, is that even though the use of guns isn’t one of the most common ways of committing euthanasia, it’s still counted as a process?”

“That’s right.”

Silva’s glare turns to Kaede as he trots over to the defense table. “Thank you, Doctor.”

 

~***~

 

Chrollo can smell the hint of a later frost blowing beneath his nostrils. The ocean waves are crescent over the shores as they flash over the sand. They drift back to the waters, leaving damp washed prints like a blanket. Chrollo continues to watch this happen until the stars are blooming on the night sky, signaling their words beside the moon like arrows.

He tries to look closer, wishing that he knows what the stars are saying, hoping that when he connects the lines, he’ll be able to know the meaning. But he only reaches out for it, stretches out his hands until he has the glow dangling in the pockets of his jeans. He feels it burn through the fabric. His breath gets stuck in his throat as he realizes who resembles the heated stroke of the sky – Hisoka’s face resonates through his eyelids, an image clearer than anything else he’s ever seen.

The more he tries to erase it, the more Hisoka’s voice tramples like a signal light over his head.

No matter what he does, Chrollo will always think about him.

The back of the pickup truck is chilly, filled with the crispy air of snow from the connecting city. The only time he can fully see the stars is when he’s in the outskirts of Kukuroo, where the night overpowers the city like the emanating light of the moon. He gathers his coat closer around his body, preventing the cold from frizzling over his skin. But there’s something piercing the back of his neck, and when he scratches the feeling off, his nail hits something cold.

He stares at his empty fingertips, at the metal inking its way to his wrists – and when he stamps his hand over his lips, he can taste the bitter smoke of an already used bullet.  

 

~***~

 

Kikyo Zoldyck has already earned her place in front of the witness stand, not the cramped space inside it. The moment she settles herself on the stool, she feels like she’s about to fall over. She watches the jury lean closer, as if she is a showcase instead of a spectator. She looks at her son. Illumi is hunching his back in an attempt to hide himself, although Kikyo knows that her son is only ashamed of what he’s dragged her into. Honestly, a mother could not be more disappointed. No family should ever go through this, much less the Zoldycks.

Her distaste is brazen across her face, but it falters the moment her eyes reach Silva’s tiny grin. His long stringy hair has brushed against his stomach, frizzy at the ends. There are dark circles under his eyes where Illumi’s ghosts are fighting. Even Kikyo can taste the weariness of her husband from more than a foot away. Does her son realize what he’s done to this family, or how much his father has sacrificed just to make a decent defense?

She tries to smile at Illumi when he lifts his head, but his eyes clink to the side, avoiding eye contact. Kikyo’s face stays calm and composed, but the insides of her stomach are bubbling with boiled anger, pushed down her chest in order to prevent an explosion. No mother deserves a child gone.

“Mr. Zoldyck,” Judge Puckett says. He inserts a piece of hard candy into his mouth, chewing it. “You may proceed.”

Silva nods. He walks closer to the stand, opening his notes to a random page. Kikyo notices his throat bobbing – the first sign of his nervousness.

“Mrs. Zoldyck,” he greets. “Thank you for being here today. I understand how hard it must be for you: seeing your son go through this case.”

Kikyo knows what she should say; they’ve rehearsed it a hundred times. But when she opens her mouth, a different part of her speaks – something so bitter and unwanted that it pries it out of her lips. “Not as hard as it is for me to see my other son dead,” she spits out.

Silva steps back in surprise, as if his own wife has just slapped him right across the face. He tries to maintain his composure as he proceeds closer to the stand, his fury pounding at every step of the way. He yanks himself to the stand, grabbing Kikyo at the back of her neck, pulling her face toward his. Kikyo can feel her heart hammer against her throat, nearly afraid that Silva will say something that will make her own anger crumble.

“This is for our son,” he whispers, his words stinging at her cheek. “I don’t know which son you’re thinking of, Kikyo, but you better get your priorities straight.” He pulls back slightly, his eyes catching hers with the same intensity. “You don’t want to lose another one by mistake.”

He settles himself back on the floor, fixing his tie to retain his composure. This is one of the first rules of being a lawyer: never let your anger get the best of you, or else, be prepared to lose.

Kikyo is aware of the people’s eyes on the previous spectacle, of the jury’s confused and curious faces, wondering what’s going on between the two of them. Honestly, even Kikyo is not sure of what’s happening. She and her husband have always been allies, two people in separate bodies, ready to take on whatever’s hooking the both of them. But now, despite the mere inches of distance in between them, it feels like their bodies are disconnected by a wide ocean.

Neither of them seems to want to get in between, fearing the possibility of losing in each other, as if they can no longer trust the other person.

“Mrs. Zoldyck,” Silva continues smoothly. “What is your relationship with the victim?”

“I was his mother.”

“Were you two close?”

Kikyo feels her throat close up. This is the hard part: she doesn’t want to tell the jury the truth. She is a witness, yes, but first and foremost, she is a mother. But when Silva catches her gaze, her resolve crushes into two. She opens her mouth, tries to get her throat to work. “No,” she says. The letters grit against the sides of her teeth. The words clamp over her cheeks. “We weren’t close.”

“How come?”

Kikyo Zoldyck straightens her back, folds her hands neatly on her lap. “Killua and I had constant disagreements. As a mother, I was required to know what was best for him. He wanted his freedom, but I knew that he wasn’t ready. Liberty came with responsibilities, and he refused to see that.”

“Did he personally tell you that he wanted freedom?”

“Yes.”

“And what was your usual reaction?”

Kikyo lowers her head, feeling blood rush to her face. “I got angry every time he mentioned it. I didn’t like how he was purposefully avoiding my opinion about the subject.”

“In what ways did you restrict him?”

“I didn’t let him out of the mansion, unless needed for school. He was to follow the schedule I made for him. He was also required to study a little bit of law during his age in order for him to inherit the company. I kept him on watch everyday. His clothes had trackers, although I’m sure that he removed them from time to time.”

“Did you ever feel like you were too harsh on him?”

“No,” Kikyo answers. She shakes her head slowly. Her piercing gaze stands like stone on her husband’s face. Even when he has already started to question her motives, Kikyo knows that she’s only doing what is best. Even when their sons don’t realize it. “I was his mother. I only wanted what was best for him.”

“Which was to restrict him from his freedom?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew,” Silva says, his voice getting louder, “that that was the cause of your son’s death?”

Kaede Ito shoots to her feet. “Objection!”

“I think I’ll allow it,” Judge Puckett announces. He bites on his hard candy, slamming his teeth against the marble.

Kikyo closes her eyes as she feels the heavy stare settle on her face, poking her skin like a rod of molten fury. She has never tasted this kind of hatred on her lips. “Yes,” she says tightly. “I did.”

“What was your reaction when the doctor told you that your son was dead?”

“I was surprised at first,” Kikyo admits. “But then, I got angry. Angry that Killua wasn’t alive, that Killua couldn’t make it, that the doctors couldn’t do anything.”

“Did you examine the body?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How did you take it?”

“I couldn’t,” Kikyo says, feeling a sob curl around her throat. She remembers the moment Killua’s body bobbed at the tugging force of her hand. She recalls the bullet hole she found on his head, as large and padded as her own finger. “I couldn’t look at Killua for more than five minutes. All I could think of was: _Oh, no, my baby is dead._ ”

Silva nods, curling the page into a new one. “Did you know that your son was suicidal?”

“No,” she admits. “I didn’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I was too busy with Illumi to solely focus on Killua. Killua had always been unpredictable. He was good at hiding things, except his anger. Illumi was the only one who really knew him.” _And what about me?_ she thinks. _Did I just overlook the facts in front of me? Or did any of them really exist?_

“Oh?” Silva presses. “So, you think that Illumi Zoldyck, who is the defendant today, is the only person in the Zoldyck family to ever know Killua completely?”

“Yes,” Kikyo says. “Illumi knew him better than anyone.”

“Were they close?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that Illumi could have been violent toward Killua?”

Kikyo has rehearsed this part a thousand times, so when she finally has to speak on the stand, she won’t have to contemplate the answer: she already knows that this is the truth. “No.”

“No,” Silva repeats. “Why?”

“Because Illumi loved him more than anyone did,” Kikyo says, sighing heavily. “Illumi did everything for his brother. He sacrificed his own self, so that his brother wouldn’t take the impact. He volunteered to take over the law firm because he knew that Killua didn’t want to inherit it. He was very selfless for his brother.”

“Do you think that Illumi helped Killua kill himself?”

“Objection!” Kaede slings forward again.

Judge Puckett stares at her. “On what grounds, Ms. Ito?”

“Mrs. Zoldyck is not an expert on euthanasia.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Silva huffs, rolling his eyes. “She’s his _mother_.”

Judge Puckett breathes gruffly, closing his eyes in frustration. “Overruled.”

“Yes,” Kikyo says. “I think that Illumi helped Killua kill himself.”

“Why, Mrs. Zoldyck?”

Kikyo feels a cry swell over her throat. She keeps her lips tightly pressed together in an attempt to swallow it back down, but her words stumble like a banner the moment she opens her mouth. “Illumi was everything Killua wasn’t,” she says, tears beginning to pool her cheeks. “And Killua was everything Illumi wasn’t. They completed each other so fiercely. Illumi loved Killua more than he ever loved anyone else. Illumi would even sacrifice his own self. What Illumi did for him,” she continues, her words as heavy as a gauntlet, “was no different.”

Silva stares at her, his eyes softening by degrees. “Your witness.”

 

~***~

 

Kaede isn’t sure whether she knows how to handle this kind of witness. While Kikyo Zoldyck may be crying _now_ , there’s a big chance that her exterior will do a complete 180-degree turn. Kikyo Zoldyck may snap her fangs right at Kaede’s neck, and the prosecutor may not be able to defend herself. Whatever she does, she has to stay cautious. After all, she’s dealing with a mother.

“Mrs. Zoldyck, I’m sorry about your loss,” Kaede says.

“Of course you are, Ms. Ito,” Kikyo says drily. “Will you say that if you get my other son convicted as well?”

Kaede purses her lips, avoiding the comeback Kikyo has laid out in front of the jury. She’s only taking pity the best way she can: by pointing out that the whole family will become victims if Illumi ends up a felon. She steels her gaze the moment Kikyo does the same.

“Were you close with your other son, Illumi?”

“Not exactly,” Kikyo says. “But we bonded more often than I did with Killua.”

“Bonded,” Kaede says. “In what way did you guys bonded?”

“I helped him study,” Kikyo answers. “He was getting ready to take over the family firm. It was his early training for college. Since Killua didn’t want to inherit it, Illumi took his place.”

Kaede nods. “So, your _bonding_ included tasks and responsibilities?”

“Yes,” Kikyo says. “You can say that.”

“Did you ever talk about personal things with Illumi?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Like I said, no.”

Kaede licks her lips, unsure where to go from here. “Did you restrict Illumi from his freedom as well?”

Kikyo’s eyes snap wide, shock waving over her face. Color floods to her cheeks, and a smile grooms over Kaede’s lips. When Kikyo is silent, Judge Puckett leans over the stand, smiling gently.

“Mrs. Zoldyck, you need to answer the question.”

Kikyo blinks rapidly, shaking her head. “Yes,” she admits softly. “Yes, I did.”

“So, you restrained _both_ of your sons from freedom. But there seemed to be a difference in the way they took it, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How did Killua react?”

“He was open about it. He rebelled constantly. He snuck out of the mansion whenever he could.”

“And what about Illumi?”

“He was hiding it more often. He followed my orders without question.”

“What you’re saying, Mrs. Zoldyck, is that Killua was _fighting_ against you, and Illumi wasn’t?”

Kikyo nods. “That’s right.”

“Do you think that Illumi could have been jealous of it?”

“Jealous?” Kikyo repeats, a laugh bubbling out of her throat in surprise. “Jealous of _what_ , Ms. Ito?”

Blood rushes to Kaede’s face when she realizes that Kikyo Zoldyck is mocking her, purposefully knocking her off the pedestal. “Jealous of Killua, Mrs. Zoldyck. Do you think that Illumi could have been jealous of Killua’s eagerness to fight for his freedom?”

Kikyo shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Do you think that that jealousy could have been enough to make Illumi angry?”

“Possibly.”

“Then, do you think that that jealousy could have been the reason for Killua’s death?”

Silva has already hopped to his feet. “Objection!”

“Withdrawn,” Kaede says. “Nothing further.”

 

~***~

 

There’s something mesmerizing in the way Machi moves.

It’s not the whole body, Hisoka thinks, that makes it harder to look at her. But the gentle sound of her breathing expanding her chest, the way the flat surface of her stomach is resting against her tight t-shirt, the long sway of her legs when she’s sitting on the counter, and the pulsing vein on her wrists. Hisoka’s eyes are traveling over her skin, as if he’s undressing her from the inside, as if he’s starting from the deepest crests of her – as if the moment he gets out, he won’t be able to return.

When Hisoka flattens his hand on the short of her back, he can feel the muscles working, gearing against the curve of his palm. Machi looks at him, drawing her eyebrows close together as a question forms on her lips, but when Hisoka’s head lands on her shoulder, the atmosphere is suddenly quiet. She removes the bowl of popcorn from the microwave, setting it on the countertop.

“So,” Machi says. “What movie do you want to see?”

“Anything,” Hisoka answers. “I don’t really care.”

“Then, is a chick flick okay with you?”

Hisoka only shrugs. “Like I said, I don’t really care.”

Machi rolls her eyes, shrugging the man’s weight off of her shoulder. “Whatever.” She gathers the bowl and walks back into the living room, setting the popcorn on the coffee table. Hisoka follows her lead, his eyes trailing past the back of her neck to the knobs of her knees, where he wants to know every secret she’s been keeping. She kneels in front of the DVD player, plucking a random movie from the thin container.

Hisoka sinks into the couch as Machi sits beside him. His arm is immediately around her shoulders, feeling her weight drown in the ocean of his ribcage. Her head rests on the crook of his arm, her breath hitting the base of his collarbones. When she turns, his resolve crumbles, bits and pieces flying past the corners of his mouth. There is a sentence stuck in the ship of his bones, disconnecting so perfectly that even the dimmest light is shown.

Machi looks up at him, her eyes wide and vulnerable. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think?” Hisoka murmurs.

“The last time you did this,” Machi says, her voice light on his neck, “you broke away. Are you going to do that again?”

Hisoka knows that she’s talking about their almost-kiss at the rooftop, where the air was so chilled, their bones were shivering, where their lips were yearning for something too magnificent, where Hisoka knew for sure that he didn’t deserve something so beautiful.

“No,” Hisoka whispers, preparing himself for the truth. “This time, I’m giving in to you.”

 

~***~

 

When Silva turns to stand up, Illumi grabs him by the arm. His son’s eyes are wavering, his fingers shaking as they tuck tighter around Silva’s wrist. He faces his son with urgency, aware for the first time that Illumi is crying. He gathers his son into his arms, placing Illumi’s head against his shoulder. But Illumi pushes him away.

“Daddy,” he whispers. “Is it nearly over?”

“It is over,” Silva says. “Your mother is my last witness.”

“Last?” Illumi says, his voice quivering. “Daddy, please, I need a favor.”

Silva’s eyebrows scrunch together in weariness and confusion. “What is it?” There’s a part of him that knows exactly what Illumi is going to say, and he starts to ready himself for the impact, the shuddering realization that his son is going to turn his back.

“I want you,” Illumi says, “to put me on the stand.”

A sparking anger fizzles up Silva’s throat. He clenches his hands into fists, drawing away from Illumi as if he’s suddenly disgusted. He slams his hand on the table, stamping another on Illumi’s shoulder. “Absolutely not,” he grits out. “I will not allow you to be put on the witness stand.”

“But daddy, please – ”

“No, Illumi,” Silva replies. His breath draws short. “You get on that stand, and we’ll lose this case.”

Judge Puckett bangs on his gravel. “Is there a problem to discuss, Mr. Zoldyck?”

Silva can feel Illumi’s heated stare on his cheek, jostling like a twig against his teeth. Illumi’s desperation is a slap mark on his face. He presses his lips together before he finally speaks. “Can I call for a recess, Your Honor?”

Judge Puckett frowns. “Fine. You have ten minutes.”

 

~***~

 

They’re now in a small room, a little bit bigger than Illumi’s cell. Silva is trying hard to keep his anger in tact, to let it simmer in the pit of his stomach so that Illumi wouldn’t have to handle the impact. But his son is making it hard for him to stay calm. Illumi is seated in front of him, his head ducked, his eyes avoiding any form of contact. Silva bangs his fist on the table, snatching his son’s attention.

“Mind telling me what’s going on?” he hisses. “You know enough about the law, Illumi. Defense attorneys don’t put their clients on the stand, or even the most innocent felons are sent straight to jail. This isn’t a dream, Illumi. Start living in it.”

“I am,” he says. “I’ve always been living in it. I know what’s going to happen.”

Silva snorts. “So, you know that if you get on that stand, I’ll be the first to greet you in the State Prison.”

“I know,” Illumi whispers back. “I know that I may go to jail. I know that I may suffer in it. I probably will.” He looks at Silva directly, his eyes sharp as he continues his little speech. “But I’m the only one who knows the truth. This is my story. Won’t you let me tell it?”

Silva stares at him in disbelief. “This is no time to write a novel _in the middle of a fucking case!_ You are _my son_. I will not let you rot for thirty fucking years in a jail cell!”

“You told me that,” Illumi says slowly, “that the first rule of a lawyer is to tell the truth using his client. Are you going to go against it, or was that just a lie?”

Silva is not surprised at Illumi’s sharp tongue, at the intensity flying out of his mouth. After all, Illumi Zoldyck is not only his client, but also his son. And if the situation were different, he would have been proud.

“Fine,” he mutters. “You’re going on the stand.”

 

~***~

 

“I have another witness, Your Honor,” Silva says.

The judge frowns at the announcement. “Proceed to the bench, counsel.”

Kaede Ito is already on her feet, stupefied. She stomps over to the judge as Silva drags his feet across the ground. “What?” she demands. “And who the hell are you putting on?”

Silva’s teeth feel heavily clanked as he speaks. There’s no other way to humiliate himself than to lose a case with your child as an offering – and Kaede Ito knows it. He glances back at Illumi, who’s breathing so heavily it’s as if he’s drowning right in the middle of the court. “Illumi Zoldyck, my client.”

Judge Puckett sighs loudly. “Does he have a death wish, counselor?”

“Probably,” Silva says. “I told him about the consequences. He already signed the waiver.”

Judge Puckett turns to Kaede. “Do you have any complaints about the matter?”

Kaede Ito looks at Silva with the same question written on her face. There’s no better way to lose than to put your client on the stand. One nervous glance, one jittery answer, one misstep – and the whole case will go down the drain. Silva has no doubt that Kaede Ito has more than a fighting chance to win. “No,” she says. “I’m okay with it.”

“Of course you are,” Silva mutters. “Since it’s obvious that we’re already going to lose this case.”

“I guess you may proceed, Mr. Zoldyck.”

They quickly return to their seats, mixed feelings trotting the both of them. Silva positions himself in front of the defense table. He ignores the dense attention he’s been given – the empty glare of Kikyo Zoldyck’s face, the disappointed look painted on her cheeks.

“Defense calls Illumi Zoldyck on the stand.”

The courtroom turns into a living thing. It shakes with rumors and noise, grating against the walls as soon as Illumi is being lifted from his seat. He takes his place behind the witness stand, swearing to a Bible he’d never touched in years. His face is covered by his matted hair, strands coiling around the shape of his face. Even until now, with his body longing with determination, Silva can only see the kid that he has raised.

 _Where,_ Silva thinks, _did I make a mistake?_

He brings the microphone closer to his lips as Silva begins to question him.

“Illumi, you know that you’re on trial for the murder of Killua Zoldyck.”

“Yes. I am aware.”

“What did you feel about Killua Zoldyck?”

Illumi’s voice is raspy over the microphone, unsteady as he lets out the words. “I loved him,” he whispers. “I still do. I love him more than anything.”

“Can you tell us more about your relationship with him?”

“He filled me,” Illumi says, his face barraging back into the open. His eyes are half-lidded, as if he’s starting to sleep. But Silva realizes that Illumi is only imagining his brother, Killua’s face a permanent brand on his eyelids. “He was everything I couldn’t be, and everything I wanted to be. Our hands – they fit together. He’d always fought for his freedom, and I couldn’t. But he did it for me. He let me . . .” Illumi trails off, his words shot and wounded with dampened pain. “He let me . . . He let me have wings.”

Hearing the words makes Silva’s anger tamper down to the soles of his feet. He closes his eyes and pretends that Illumi’s ghost isn’t settling inside him. “Would you have done anything for him?”

“Yes. I would.”

“Illumi,” Silva says. He walks closer to the stand, flattening his hands over the wooden bench. He looks at his son as if he’s sinking into the pavement, watching Illumi’s eyes flood with vanquished pain. All this time, Illumi has been holding himself together, so that his parents would not remember him as a son who couldn’t be stronger. “What happened that night?”

There is an earthquake gnashing inside Silva’s ribs when Illumi begins to open his lips.

 

~***~

 

It’s not that hard to carry a gun.

It slips into his fingers as easily as sand. Chrollo’s palms are warm over the pistol, tight and firm against the handle. He tucks the bullets into its frame and listens to the gun click. He stares at the weapon for a moment longer, waving it in front of his face. The air chills over his arms like the bite of a frost. The cold is bristling over his skin, sliding in between the spaces of his fingertips.

The moon is howling Hisoka’s name over the wind, reminding Chrollo of what he would surely miss.

He positions the gun to his temple, the barrel uneasy over his forehead. He closes his eyes and counts to ten. He can already smell the smoke that’s about to spruce out of the hole, the gunpowder that will sink into his fingernails, and the pain that will come long after he’s dead.

But each time he tries to pull the trigger, Hisoka’s face comes into view. His golden eyes flicker over Chrollo’s lips, his mouth pursed as he concentrates on what he’s drawing. His long and thin fingers are spindled like spider webs. The plane of his stomach is smooth. Chrollo remembers dipping his nervous hands over Hisoka’s hipbones, fleeting like startled birds.

But Hisoka has always known how to cage Chrollo first.

Chrollo’s strength wavers, and he slowly puts the gun on his lap. An unsettling sob escapes his throat as he watches the gun stumble. There is a heavy wretch found in the center of his chest, slimming its way through his ribcage and into the course of his heart waves. He can feel Hisoka’s name tattoo itself under his breastbone, a wish that Chrollo has never figured out how to let go.

He knows that Hisoka is with Machi now. He knows that his arms are cobbled over her body like a treasure. Hisoka has always hid his feelings from everyone else, but even Chrollo can see the secret Hisoka has been keeping. All this time, his heart belongs to Machi – a girl with so many witty comebacks and insults in the spots of her teeth, that Hisoka can’t help but be attracted to someone he refuses to fit in his lips.

_And what then is he left with?_

Chrollo closes his eyes as he wings a silent apology, a message sent to Machi’s way. He hopes that she can grasp it before Hisoka can ever see it, before Hisoka can even think to stop him.

Chrollo pulls out his lighter and a cigarette stick. He lights it, watches the ember coal into the cigarette like an ocean flame.

He breathes in the smoke, tasting Hisoka’s name.

 

~***~

 

_He’s not happy._

_The sentence roams in Illumi’s mind like a catapult; it slings toward him wherever he goes. He twists the barrel against his cheek, imagining Killua’s lips grazing over his skin. He repeats the words in the back of his head until his throat is scorching, scratching with the letters forming. He dips his fingers down his neck, feeling Killua’s name trudge over to his teeth – a secret he’s not willing to give away._

_There is a sudden creak found at the door. Illumi’s head snaps to the entrance in alarm, but his body relaxes when he recognizes the figure of his brother. Killua’s eyes lazily travel over the bookshelves before they settle on Illumi’s body. He walks closer, relief visibly flooding through him._

_“I’ve been trying to find you everywhere,” he says. He rakes his fingers through his hair, the silver strands glinting under the moonlight. “I thought you left.”_

_“Left?” Illumi asks. “Left where?”_

_Killua shrugs. “Left the mansion. Ran away or whatever.”_

_Illumi’s confusion grows for a moment before the realization clicks over his head. He yanks Killua’s closer with his free hand, the one holding the pistol still resting at his side. Killua’s eyes widen with surprise at Illumi’s embrace, and he writhes his body backwards. He’s not happy. “Will leaving make you happy, Killua?” Illumi asks in urgency. His voice comes as a manic wave. It washes over Killua’s neck like a sea shelled offering. “Will it make you happy?”_

_His brother narrows his eyes, and he pulls his body away. “What are you talking about?”_

_He’s not happy._

_“What should I do,” Illumi whispers, “to make you happy?”_

_Killua blinks at him. “What should you do . . .?” A tiny light of hope flashes in the blue of his eyes. Illumi can feel his heart crumble in the palms of his open hands, as if the one thing he’s given to someone else is already ready to give it back. Will anyone ever fully accept what he’s never wanted to lack? “Will you help me, Illumi? Will you help make me happy?”_

_He’s not happy._

_“Of course, Killua,” Illumi says softly. His eyes are glazed, his voice drowning. When Illumi tries to find his anchor in the deep trenches of his sea, he ends up searching for nothing but his own sanity. “I’ll do anything for you.”_

_“Then, will you help me leave? For good?”_

_He’s not happy._

_“Leave,” Illumi repeats, his voice trailing behind him. The sound of his words is damp and puddled, muffling over the noise of the ghosts lingering behind the walls. Illumi wonders if he can slip through the pavement and never return at all. “Leave. You want to leave?”_

_“Yes,” Killua says. “I want to leave.”_

_He’s not happy._

_“Then,” Illumi says, bringing out the gun he’s hiding, “will this help?”_

 

~***~

 

Shock erupts into the courtroom as Illumi gives this information. Even his brother, who already knows that summarized version, is silent. The first one to break the spell is Judge Puckett. He leans closer to the witness, his fingers fumbling with a roll of hard candy. He looks at Illumi, as if he’s genuinely curious about what really happened. He inserts the candy into his mouth, smashing the ball into two. Illumi tries not to flinch, remembering the triggering sound of the gun.

“Your brother wasn’t happy,” Judge Puckett says. “Why? Why did he want to leave? Why did you offer the gun?”

“Because,” Illumi says, his voice straining back, “he wanted to get out of there. He didn’t want to stay in the Zoldyck mansion anymore, in the Zoldyck household. He wanted to get away from his own family.”

“Why?” Silva asks, clearing his throat. His eyes are painfully hollow. “Why did he want to get away?”

Illumi lowers his head, fitting his hands together like roots, pretending that his other hand belongs to someone else. He imagines a person – one who isn’t himself. “Because our mother caged him. She caged the both of us. Killua was getting tired of having his freedom controlled.”

“When you offered the gun, did Killua already want to kill himself?”

Illumi is quiet for a moment before he breaks open his mouth, his lips forming into a crater of truth. “Yes. I think so. He wanted to get away, to end it. It didn’t matter in what way.”

Silva presses two fingers to his temples when a series of gasps could be heard from the courtroom. Illumi’s eyes swell with tears, afraid for the first time of what his father must think of him. “Did he outwardly tell you that he wanted to kill himself.”  

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You don’t know,” Silva repeats. His tone is harsh and cold, his anger seeping into the swollen parts of his bones. Illumi can feel his father’s wrath trickle over the throb of his neck. “You don’t know whether he told you.”

Illumi bends over the witness stand as a splitting headache flies over his head. His vision has started to turn into static, his eyesight blurry as he tries to think straight. He grasps the edge of the witness stand, his knuckles turning pale. “He said that he wanted to be happy, no matter what it took. I only gave him an option.”

“And then?” Silva presses. “What else did he say?”

Illumi lifts his head, a fissure tipping his memory back into place. He closes his eyes, agony ripping through his throat as he lives through it again.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka’s head is spinning with dewdrops when Machi starts to straddle him. His hands land on both sides of her waist, warm and light as pastry. Her body rests on top of him, her fingers curled over his shoulders as their chests press gently together. Hisoka can feel Machi’s heartbeat sitting just on top of his collarbones, beeping like the solar kisses of his home.

Her breath hits on his cheek, and he slowly turns his head to kiss her. But his lips only brush against the corner of her mouth, resting instead on the peek of her cheekbones. He nuzzles their faces together – his chin strokes her jaw, his cheek bristles past her neck, his nose teases the underside of her chin. Everywhere Hisoka touches, he grabs a part of her with him. Everywhere Machi breathes, Hisoka collects more pieces of her into his teeth.

Everywhere they kiss, it feels like they’re both silently falling.

This is what love is, Hisoka thinks. When both of them have no idea whether this is right or wrong, when neither of them wants to figure out what the future holds – and yet, they still want something more than just each other’s unfilled spaces. This is what love is, Hisoka thinks. When Machi is filling all the empty parts of him, and he still feels like there are spaces for her to reach – all this time, Hisoka has been saving up his vacant pockets in order for her to fit herself.

Hisoka doesn’t need to feel whole as long she is with him; he only needs to know what’s missing.

Machi draws back, her eyebrows connected with worry. She frames his face with her palms, and he wonders how he can fit so perfectly. “Are you okay?” Machi asks. “You look like you’ve stopped breathing.”

“I probably did,” Hisoka admits. His fingers long for her, stretch over the seams of her skin with precise intricacy. “But the good kind. The kind where it’s obvious that I want to get lost in you.”

Machi laughs softly. Her fingers curl over his ears, as if she’s blocking out the noise that’s surely about to happen. “You’re so cheesy.”

“Only for you,” Hisoka whispers. He pulls her close, clings to her until their bodies are fused; until their skins are so attached, they share the same swelling bruise.

“Better be,” Machi teases, breathing sharply.

And she reaches for his lips, touches their mouths together like the first intoxication of smoky kisses. They kiss in ink, in ocean waves, in the light flutter of bridges. They kiss as if the other is fading.

They kiss the moment the other needs saving.

 

~***~

 

Chrollo is not sure how much longer he has to wait.

The moon is already mocking him for his fear, washing over the sand dunes like it’s searching for something else. Chrollo’s head is dwindling, his heart is crouching in the middle of his chest, and his breathing is folding into two uneven crescents. He can feel something happening when he feels a sharp breath enter his neck. He closes his eyes as he leans against the edge of the pickup truck, gathering the blanket closer to his body.

He folds himself, thinking of what Hisoka would think when the man surely finds him.

Chrollo doesn’t doubt it: the moment the stale taste of gunpowder enters his head, Hisoka’s lips will taste like the ghost of Chrollo’s name.

Maybe Hisoka already has it imprinted on him.

Chrollo reaches for the gun sitting in front of him, cradling it like a baby.

His staggering hand grapples over the gun. The hard muscles of his arms begin to roll unsteadily, the pulse of his veins throbbing at his wrists. His fingers are trembling as he rolls the handle over in his palms. Beads of sweat pore over the smooth curve of his forehead. For one moment, Chrollo thinks of Hisoka in all his manifestations: five, with the gentle hands of a boy; ten, growing; age fifteen, gleaming with intricate dexterity; seventeen, his passions painted inside him; and finally, _now_ , right at this moment, where Hisoka is finally giving his heart to someone else, to a girl who will surely keep it safe.

He lifts the gun to his head, his hands shaking as he feels the earth quiver under the weight of him. He slips his index finger into the round hole, where the trigger is waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I love you.”

And then, there is a shot.

 

~***~

 

_Killua staggers backward in surprise, his whole body following the sudden movement as his eyes settle on the gun Illumi has presented. Illumi can feel the harsh intake of breath, the high-pitched beating of Killua’s chest. His brother steps farther away from him, bringing his arms up to his body for protection. Killua’s moonlit eyes waver with fear._

_“Illumi,” he croaks out. “What are you doing with a gun?”_

_Illumi glances down at the pistol, as if he’s only just realized that he’s holding it. He brings it closer to his face, aware of Killua’s terror rolling out of his body. Illumi points the barrel away to prove that he’s not planning on hurting Killua, but his brother is so focused on Illumi’s face that he doesn’t notice the gun’s change of direction._

_“I want to make you happy, Killua,” Illumi says gently. “I only want to make you happy.”_

_“By killing me?” Killua’s voice quivers. His knees nearly buckle from beneath him. His body nearly gives up on supporting his weight. “You think you can make me happy by killing me?”_

_“You want to get away from here, don’t you?” Illumi asks softly. “You want it all to end, right?”_

_Killua’s words dissolve from his lips. “I do,” he agrees. “But not like this. I don’t want you to kill me.”_

_“Then,” Illumi says, pushing the gun toward him like any other present, “do it yourself.”_

_Killua’s body almost thaws when Illumi offers the gun toward him, his hand wide open. His face blanches, his breath going thin. “What are you talking about?” Killua asks slowly. “You think I want to kill myself?”_

_“You want to leave, don’t you? You want this all to stop. This is the only way, Killua. This is the only way you can end this.” Illumi tips his head to the side, the words sliding out of his lips with ease. “Don’t you want this?”_

_“I-I do,” Killua stammers. He hesitantly pushes his arm forward to grasp the gun, but the moment his fingers brush against the handle, he pulls his hand back. He slouches down, covering his face with his knees, burying his humiliation under the icy particle of his skin. “I can’t,” he sobs. “I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Illumi.”_

_“You have to, Killua,” Illumi whispers. “This is the only way you can be happy.”_

_The two brothers are quiet, the silence an unbearable weight over their skins. Killua presses his cheek against his knee before he lifts his head toward Illumi. “Brother,” he says, his voice split, “do it for me. Please.”_

_Illumi stares at him, his heart combusting like a shipwreck before he finally hauls Killua to his feet. His fingers stay coiled around Killua’s wrist as Illumi points the gun toward him. Killua’s knees tremble as he closes his eyes. His eyebrows are drawn so tightly together that his face contorts in half. Illumi places his finger over the trigger, feeling the gun slip from the sweat forming on his palm._

_“Illumi,” Killua says, his body resting against Illumi’s in a moment of trust. “Will you be happy for me, too?”_

_A choking sound throttles out of his throat. Illumi’s cheeks are stained with tears as he realizes too late that he never wants Killua to stop existing._

_“I’m so sorry,” he cries, his voice wobbling._

_And then, Killua’s body goes limp._

 

~***~

 

There is a gluttonous silence as his father approaches the stand with an exertion of effort. Illumi’s throat bobs up and down as he swallows the fear into his belly. He ignores the hard looks given to him by the jury, the judgmental stares thrown at him like a gauntlet. He can feel the hatred seeping into the air of the courtroom, hovering over his head like a mantle.

Illumi shrinks further into his seat, noticing for the first time just how lonely the witness stand is. His father walks closer to him, hiding his anger down his breath. Illumi doesn’t know how he can still do it, now that he knows the truth that Illumi has been keeping. Illumi wonders how his father can look at the son he has wonderfully raised, only to cause him this kind of embarrassment.

“Did Killua want to kill himself?” Silva asks, his voice hard.

“Objection!” Kaede calls. “Asked and answered.”

Judge Puckett sighs. “I’ll allow it.”

Illumi glances down at his linked hands, wondering if another person would be willing to hold it, wondering if he’s always going to be cradling it himself. “He wanted to be happy,” he finally says.

His father pushes his head back in frustration, massaging his temples in an attempt to calm himself down. “And if that _happiness_ ,” he hisses, “meant that he wanted to kill himself, then was he suicidal or not?”

Illumi stares at his father, unable to answer the question with all the thoughts going on in his head. His father has always told him that no matter how aggravating a client is, the lawyer should defend him with enough passion, enough intensity, no matter what it takes. But now, as he fills Silva’s will slipping back into the cavern of the Zoldyck mansion, where the family’s secrets lay bare and open, Illumi realizes that this isn’t true between family. While Illumi is Silva’s client, he’s still Silva’s kid.

And even that isn’t enough to save him.

“Well?” Silva demands. “Was Killua suicidal or not?”

“He was,” Illumi says, closing his eyes. _Or at least, that’s what I had wanted to believe_.

“Where did you get the gun?”

“In your study,” Illumi answers. “In the cabinet you hid behind the bookshelf.”

“Did you fill the six bullets?”

“Yes.”

“Why six? Why not just one?”

Illumi opens his mouth over the empty sockets of his words. “I don’t know,” he admits, face flushing. “I wasn’t thinking. I just put six.”

“When you helped Killua kill himself,” Silva says, “was your hand on the gun?”

“Yes.”

“Was Killua’s hand on the gun?”

“No,” Illumi says. “He didn’t want to touch it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “He just didn’t want to, I guess.”

“Did he ask you to help him kill himself?”

“Yes.”

Silva paces in front of the witness stand. He looks at the faces of the jury, his calm expression nearly breaking loose. “What did he say?”

“He said: Brother, do it for me.”

“That’s what he said. _“Brother, do it for me_. _”_ ”

“Yes.”

“Was he resisting?”

“No.”

“Was he holding on to you?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say that he wanted to be happy?”

“Yes.”

“How are you sure?” Silva demands. “How are you sure that he only wanted to be happy? How are you sure that he wanted to kill himself, in order to be _happy?_ ”

“Because,” Illumi croaks, his chest tightening into a single piece, where only Killua’s name can fully fit, “I can still hear him say it, sometimes. I can hear him in the middle of the night, telling me that he wasn’t happy, that he wanted to be happy. I can hear him everywhere. I can hear him now. Do you know what it feels like,” he continues, his eyes filling with tears, “what it feels like to hear someone speak those words so loudly, even though he’s already dead?”

His father can’t bear to look at him. Even his own mother still hasn’t gotten rid of the shock on her face. No matter where Illumi looks, he feels like he’s only being suffocated. There’s no difference between where he is, whether he’s at home or in a jail cell or in here – no matter where he goes, he can’t belong anywhere.

Not even in his own skin.

“Do you think he’s happy now?” Silva asks softly. “Is he happy now, Illumi?”

Illumi lets a sob hurl over the microphone before he speaks. “Yes,” he whispers. “I like to think that he is.”

 

~***~

 

Kaede already has Silva to do her job for him, but she’s never been the kind of person to give up so easily. She walks over to the witness stand, smiling at Illumi. He gives her a weary grin, and Kaede realizes that his strength can only stretch so far. It’s obvious that he’s already very, very tired. And everything else – including her – is only leaving a deeper scar.

“Was your hand on the gun?”

“Yes.”

“Did you place the bullets?”

“Yes.”

“Killua’s hand was not on that gun.”

“No.”

“Your finger was on that trigger.”

“It was.”

Kaede steps closer. “You _think_ that Killua was suicidal.”

“That’s right.”

“Was a shot fired?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill him, Illumi?”

Illumi shakes his head fiercely. “No.”

“No,” Kaede repeats. “But it sounds fairly close to murder, doesn’t it?”

 

~***~

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Silva says. “The trial is almost over. Actually, it _is_ over. Both Ms. Ito and I have presented our witnesses – people who have uncovered their own versions of the story. To her witnesses, the story is all about the facts. Was Killua suicidal? Did Illumi shoot Killua in the head? Was it a murder or was it a suicide? To Kaede Ito, the story revolves around the facts given to her by the evidence, the facts that everyone else wants to see and believe.

“But a story isn’t all about the facts, isn’t it? It’s about the little things, such as Killua’s constant fight for freedom, Illumi’s love for his brother. These things may seem little to you, but to those two boys, to those two brothers – these little things are bigger than all of us, bigger than the story. These little things are not only facts, but are also what makes _their_ story the truth.” Silva clasps his hands together as he faces the jury, eyeing them all one by one.

“That’s right. The truth. We all know that the truth is hardly ever presented in a courtroom. People lie all the time. It’s a natural thing, isn’t it? It slips past our tongues as easily as a hobby. But one thing I know, ladies and gentlemen, is that neither of my sons has ever spoken a lie. Maybe to me and my wife, they have. But to each other?” Silva shakes his head. “I hardly doubt it.”

“Here is the truth, as plain and simple as it is: Illumi loved Killua so much that he’d do anything for his brother, even if that means euthanasia, or as what Kaede Ito likes to think, murder. Is it murder? Maybe. Is it euthanasia? Probably. But that’s not what I’d like to focus on because as hard as it is to admit and accept, that is not the truth.

“What is the truth? What _is_ the story? The story is this: Killua told his brother that he wanted to be happy. Illumi, who had loved his brother so much – too much, in fact – went to my study and brought out the gun. Killua found Illumi in my office, and slowly, the conversation took place. Illumi wanted Killua to be happy more than anything. Illumi would have given his own life to make that happen. And ladies and gentlemen, in a way, he did.

“He offered to Killua two choices: to keep on suffering within the hands of restrained freedom, or to end it, right then and there, and finally have the peaceful happiness Killua deserved. He gave Killua the _choice_ – a gift so precious, so rare, that Killua couldn’t resist. Illumi didn’t kill his brother that night. He simply gave Killua the opportunity to choose what was best, what would finally make him happy.”

Silva stops walking, standing firm in front of the jury. He has captured them, their attention trained solely on his speech. He hopes that it’s enough to also get their sides. “Right now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m also giving you the options to choose. You can choose whom to believe: the set of facts Kaede Ito has laid out in front of you, or Illumi’s truth, Illumi’s story. This time, it’s your choice to believe.”

“This time,” he says, “it’s your choice to listen.”

 

~***~

 

“Wow,” Kaede says. “Silva Zoldyck has certainly made a fantastic speech there. I tore up a little myself. My handkerchief is all wet, you see.” She stands in front of the jury, smiling when Silva scowls at her mockery. “Silva Zoldyck told you to look at the truth, to listen to Illumi’s story. He told you to avoid the set of facts I’ve given, the evidence that has clearly led up to a murder. He told you to look at Illumi’s perspective and listen. But ladies and gentlemen, which one should you believe?”

She raises both eyebrows, pretending to look exhausted. “Well. There are two stories here. One is where Detective Mamoru said that Illumi found his brother in his father’s study, that he had never held the gun, nor touched the bullets. The second is where Illumi told his father, his own lawyer, that it was a suicide. Killua wanted to kill himself, but he couldn’t even try. So, Illumi did it for him. Now, these stories are vastly different. But which one is the truth? Which one leads to the evidence? Which one is the story you can and _should_ believe?”

Kaede laughs. “Let me tell you the pure and simple truth, ladies and gentlemen. The truth is that Illumi touched that gun, Illumi placed the bullets inside the gun, Illumi pointed the barrel at Killua’s head. The truth is that Illumi shot him.”

“You can believe what you want to believe,” Kaede says. “Is this a murder, or is this euthanasia? Is this the truth, or is this the lie? Just remember this: a story is not the truth without the facts. And the facts, the evidence all lead up to one thing: murder. Illumi’s fingerprint was on that gun, he loaded the bullets, he placed the gun on Killua’s head. The fact is that Illumi killed his own brother – and he pinned it as something else. That is the truth, ladies and gentlemen. And as Silva Zoldyck has given you the same choice, I’m leaving the options to you: which story is the truth?”

 

~***~

 

By five p.m., the jury has already reached a verdict.

Illumi can feel his heart constrict with nervousness, bile rising up his throat as the feeling overwhelms him. His father has not spoken to him since. Silva is purposefully avoiding any contact with his son, as if one word, and his entire resolve will come stumbling down. Illumi’s throat swells with tears, his face scrunching up as he realizes that no one is here to anchor him.

“Mr. Foreman,” Judge Puckett says. “Have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.”

“Is this unanimous?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Puckett nods, rising to his feet. “Will the defendant please rise?”

Illumi hauls himself to his feet, just as his father nearly does it for him. He can feel his entire body wobbling like an uneasy shift of sail. He closes his eyes as he imagines the sun hitting the base of his ship, the warmth sinking into his skin like cigarette teeth kisses. He envelops the scent of smoke curdling beneath his nostrils, and for the first time, he finally feels a pair of arms wrap around him. _Maybe_ , he thinks, _this is what the sun feels like when he kisses me_.

“In the matter of the State of Kukuroo versus Illumi Zoldyck, on the count of murder in the first degree, how do you find?”

Illumi can feel sweat trickle in between his shoulder blades, heat streaking his skin like a geyser erupting inside his body. Silva’s hand folds over the small of his back, supporting his weight from going slack. Illumi leans against his father, his vision starting to double over.

The foreman glances at the slip of paper he’s holding. “Not guilty,” he says.

Illumi can feel his father turning toward him with surprised excitement. He can hear the cry of relief from his mother’s lips. He can feel Milluki’s smile slipping into place. But all he can think about is the bullet wound invisibly forming right on his head, the taste of smoke found at the deepest fracture of his teeth.

And before Silva can think to catch him, Illumi finally falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like this chapter. Thank you so much for reading. Please leave a comment/review if you want to say anything.


	35. Heartbeats

Chapter Thirty-Five

 

December 2013

 

 

There is a deafening silence in the cemetery as Hisoka pushes open the gates. The metals squeak against the barrel of snow laid on the ground. His boots sink into the white texture, the pile rising to the lip of his shoes. He ignores the frost kissing the bones of his cheeks like a mountain summit. He paves his way through the cobbled aisle of the cemetery, his body leading up to the gravestone where Chrollo is buried.

His chest is unbearably calm. The storm that has planted itself in his ribcage the night before has dissipated, replaced by the gentle wake of an ocean crest. When Hisoka breathes, his throat fully opens up like a perfect shell. His breath doesn’t rattle inside the cage of his chest, instead it expands like a black dove’s wing. Hisoka’s back muscles contract, aware of the sudden lack of weight.

Once he’s close enough to the grave, Hisoka folds his legs underneath his thighs, the cold staining into his jeans. Every breath he’s been holding ooze out of his lips, creating thick and pale smog. He stares at the carved words of the gravestone – Chrollo Lucilfer; July 23, 1992 – December 23, 2011; Beloved. Hisoka narrows his eyes as he notices the tiny space between the word, “Beloved,” unsure whether the one who designed it made a mistake, or if he simply wanted to give a dead soul a reminder.

Even after two years, Hisoka can still taste Chrollo’s smoke. All this time, he has only been loving a ghost.

Hisoka brushes the snow off the words of the gravestone, letting his knuckles feed off the cold. He closes his eyes and rests his hands on his lap, tears springing to the back of his eyes like ivy. He forms his hand into a fist and slowly grazes it against the stone, right at the font of Chrollo’s name. “You told me,” Hisoka murmurs, his breathing pooled with tears, “that nothing would change. But I lose you everyday.”

He slowly ducks his head, letting the cold sink to the back of his bare neck. There are times when he clearly remembers what Chrollo has said to him, all the words that Chrollo has shot into his temples, the tangle of promises Hisoka can never seem to let go. They always linger like summer chimes in the lobe of his ears. When he tries to remove them, the sound becomes stronger, as if Chrollo is reminding him to always remember.

“Why couldn’t you stay?” Hisoka whispers. “I thought I’d already given you my wings. If they were meant for flight, then why were you falling?” His fist clenches tighter and tighter, his knuckles turning into a hollow shade of white. His elbow nearly loses its balance against the force driven on his lower arm. His muscles struggle as he evens out his breath.

“You’ve always been so selfish,” he says softly. “I keep loving someone who doesn’t even belong to me. Just when I thought I had you, you would leave.”

There is a quiet chill keeling over the atmosphere like a blanket. Hisoka drops his hand back to his lap, covering his trembling knuckles with his fingers. His head hangs low from his neck, his eyelids closing as he hears footsteps behind him. He doesn’t bother to check who it is; he can already recognize the steady heartbeat, the pulse throbbing in her chest as she sees him, the jump of the birdcage of her chest, and the fear crumbling into her pupils.

Machi settles down beside him, propping the cup of coffee on her knee to keep it warm. Hisoka’s nose naturally wrinkles in disgust.

“You should have drank that on the way,” Hisoka says. “It smells disgusting.”

“Oh, please,” Machi replies, rolling her eyes. “Do you want me to burn my tongue?”

 _No,_ Hisoka thinks, as his eyes loom over her lips, _I can do a perfectly good job by doing it myself_.

Machi’s gaze visibly softens as she fully looks at him. Her frown turns gentle, creased with worry. Her blue eyes melt over like a blistering block of ice. She places the coffee cup on the snow, the steam mounting from the container like smoke. Hisoka watches it disappear with the foggy texture of the snow pile before he finally looks away.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Machi admits. “You haven’t been here since . . .”

“He died,” Hisoka finishes. “Yeah. I couldn’t even attend the funeral.”

“You refused to see the body,” Machi reminds him. “You said that you didn’t want to remember him that way.”

Hisoka lowers his head, a smile slowly appearing on his lips. “But I remember him,” he whispers. “I remember the taste of gunpowder in my throat. I remember the feel of a bullet hole in my head, like it was burning right through my scalp. I remember kissing you the moment he pulled the trigger. That’s,” he says, looking over at Machi, “what I remember.”

Machi avoids his gaze. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe,” he relents. “But I still could have saved him.”

“That wasn’t going to change anything. You still couldn’t save him. You know that.”

“You know what I really regret?” Hisoka says, hot tears scalding past his throat. There is emptiness in his stomach that could only be filled with smoke. “I let him die alone. I let him die, thinking that he was abandoned.”

Machi’s cheeks are turning red, her eyes glistening. “He knew that you loved him. More than anything.”

Hisoka laughs softly. “That’s not true. Last I checked,” he says, pushing his head back, letting the silver streak of the sun stroke his neck, “I’d gotten lost in someone else. Do you still remember that, or are you trying too hard to forget?”

Machi shakes her head, her next words slumping on his shoulders like heavy cargo. “You were with Illumi last night, weren’t you?”

Hisoka stares at her, pressing his lips together before the letters form like pinpricks on his lips. “Yeah. I was. How did you know?”

Machi’s face stays even, but the frost of her eyes burn. “Because,” she chokes out, “he filled the space that should have been meant for me.” She starts to stand up, knocking over the plastic cup of coffee. The black liquid spills over the snow in contrast, reminding Hisoka of last night – where his body coiled over Illumi’s like a barrier, where his teeth clenched against each other, where his wings trimmed around Illumi’s body, where Hisoka felt like he was already losing everything he’d already naively given.

Hisoka grasps for her, sails his fingers around her wrists like a noose, unable to let go of the only person he couldn’t lose. “Don’t,” he whispers. “He didn’t fill anything. He only took what was left.”

Machi’s eyebrows draw together. “What do you mean by that?”

“What I felt with Chrollo,” Hisoka murmurs. “I also felt it with him. Like he was taking a part of me I refused to give, like I was suffocating.”

Machi stares at him as if he were crazy, but she slowly bends down to her knees, her body sinking into his like a ship. She cups his face with her gentle palms, his body fitting snugly in the trench of her arms. “Hisoka,” she says gently, “it’s time that you let go.”

Hisoka looks at her, transfixed, before he nods. “I know. I know,” he says, his voice trailing like a hive. “But what if,” he continues, his golden eyes hooking hers like a solar orbit, “I can’t let go of _him?_ ”

 

~***~

 

Machi figures that she should put her crime investigation major to use, which is why she’s currently propped in front of her computer, already booting up the system. She taps her fingers on the keyboard as the wallpaper flashes in. She immediately clicks Chrome, typing in the search box: _Illumi Zoldyck_.

Google appears with the results. Machi’s frown deepens as she clicks on the links, her head whirring as she stars to hear a rumble of voices, as she feels her memories rebooting in the back of her head. She recalls the scent of crème latte, sprinkled donuts and English muffins. She stares at the screen as she presses her fingers against her temples, trying to regain her concentration.

Most of the sites are news feeds, online newspapers and magazines. Most of them are about the entire family’s success. She opens another few links until she sees one that grabs her attention. It’s an article from a court case that happened two years ago, on exactly the same date. Machi’s eyes scan over the print, her breath hitching as she realizes what she’s reading.

Something grows like tumbleweed in her chest, spinning around her bones until she forces them to rest. It thickens around her throat. Residue lies in her chest as she decides what she should do. She knows what will happen, but Hisoka deserves to know. She looks over at the thick wall, imagining Hisoka on the other side. She pictures him with his paint stained fingers, his bare chest, and his feet stepping on the stool rest.

Guilt spruces up in her throat she prints the article, and she slowly makes her way over to Hisoka’s apartment. She closes her eyes, so that when Hisoka falls, she’d blindly and finally catch him.

 

~***~

 

The more Illumi visits Hisoka’s apartment, the more he feels like there’s something different.

It’s not the arrangement of the furniture; he doubts Hisoka will even lift a finger to clean, much less change the interior. It’s not the way Illumi looks at it, because no matter how much he switches his perception, he’s still looking at the same thing. But it’s the lingering smell of perfume and peppermint and coffee – the scent blending together in an odd mix. He can sense it even in the bend of Hisoka’s elbow, in the back of his knees. He can recognize the aftertaste the moment they kiss.

It’s almost as if Hisoka has removed his usual taste of smoke, as if he’s found something more edible than cigarettes. Illumi doesn’t know what it is, but the more he tastes it, the more he’s sure that it belongs to someone else. As Illumi looks over at Hisoka’s vacant stare, only one other person comes to mind.

And she’s right there breathing on the other side.

Illumi moves closer to Hisoka on the couch. “Hisoka,” he says, scooting over, “are you all right?”

Hisoka’s trance snaps, and he fixes his gaze on Illumi’s closing form. His golden eyes shine in alarm. He swiftly drags his body backward, his spine hitting the armrest. His pupils are stroked with unmasked fear, as if he’s expecting Illumi to ravage him without any warning. Illumi cautiously returns to his original space, a pang reaching his chest. Illumi memorizes the number of seconds before Hisoka finally relaxes.

Hisoka clears his throat. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. Fidgety.”

“Any reason why?” Illumi prompts. “Perhaps I can help calm you down?”

Hisoka quickly shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Illumi stares at him, his body yearning, his skin blossoming as he looks at Hisoka’s lips. He slowly reaches out for him, his fingers uncurling as he tries to flutter them over Hisoka’s skin. But the moment Illumi steps inside Hisoka’s boundary, the man flinches, his shoulders twisting as he instinctively hides himself. Illumi blinks, dropping his arm back to his side.

A rainforest splatters inside him like paint drops, stinging the cage of his bones. He feels something clawing its way up his throat, finding a home in his teeth. When he opens his mouth, he feels like he’s not the one speaking. “What,” he whispers, “can I do to make you happy?”

Hisoka’s head jerks toward him, his golden eyes wide with uncertainty. “Why?” he says, his words strangled in heaps. “Are you going to kill me, too, Illumi?”

Illumi draws back in surprise, as if he’s been slapped. He stares at Hisoka as his heart veers out of his chest, pounding furiously against his ribcage like it’s about to go out of hiding. He closes his eyes, expecting Hisoka to catch it. But when he finds the courage to see where it has landed, he finds Hisoka’s fingertips empty, his hands curled tightly on his lap. Illumi clutches at his chest, wondering where it’s gone.

 

~***~

 

Fear gropes the wrench of his throat as Illumi looks at his hands, his eyes oddly vacant. Hisoka gathers his body closer to his chest, curling into a position where Illumi may not be able to fit himself. He finds his throat suffocating, the ache transferring to his collarbones where he has already tried to remove Illumi’s name. He tries not to rock himself in his place, scared that the movement will bring Illumi closer to his space.

“How?” Illumi questions, his voice cracking. “How did you know about that?”

Hisoka takes a second before he forces his throat to work. “Machi told me,” he says softly. “She gave me an article about what happened.” He looks up at Illumi, spitting the next words into his palms, making Illumi know that this is not what he wants. “You killed your brother. You killed him.”

The accusation makes Illumi yank himself backward. It takes him a moment to find the right words to speak, but Hisoka can only hear the screech of silence. “He wanted to be happy. It was the only way.”

Something inside Hisoka snaps like a twig, an action so swift and severe that it leaves his other parts hanging. _“It was not the only way!”_ Hisoka sneers, suddenly on his feet. “You could have saved him! He could have _lived_.”

Illumi isn’t fazed. He looks up at Hisoka with ease, the pain on his face turning into an unblemished painting. “Well, why do you care? He’s already dead.”

Hisoka takes in a shaky breath, his voice rocky as he patches over the rough edges. His knees almost buckle from beneath him. His fingers shudder as he closes them into fists, heaving his chest until he finally gathers enough words to say. “The thing is, Illumi, you don’t fucking know what happiness means,” Hisoka murmurs, his voice traced with molten pain and anger. “And I fucking swear, you won’t ever have that with me.”

Illumi blinks at him, and Hisoka can feel his bones going numb, his body turning into a glacier that won’t ever burn down. “What do you mean?” he whispers. “Are you . . .?”

“I can’t be with you, Illumi,” Hisoka says. His eyes connect with Illumi’s, their pupils distorting into a mess of palettes. He drops his eyelids, pretending that Illumi’s name still hasn’t been erased. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Illumi cries, jerking his body off the couch. “I want you – ”

“Stop lying to me,” Hisoka grits out. “You want what I can give you. You want my sun. And I know that’s not enough.”

“No,” Illumi mumbles. His voice sounds vulnerable, a secret that’s been out too long. “I want your love.”

Hisoka’s eyes drift downward, unable to meet Illumi’s vacant shell. His breath loops in his throat as he says his next sentence. “We both know,” he whispers, “that I can’t give myself to you when I already belong to someone else.”

Illumi stares at him, trying to school his face into a perfect blank. But the moment he looks at Hisoka, the color of his eyes ream back. He silently cups Hisoka’s face with one hand, bringing their lips together. Tears yoke on Hisoka’s cheeks, straining the back of his eyelids.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t love you the way you needed,” Illumi whispers.

“And I’m sorry,” Hisoka says, breathing sharply, “that I couldn’t love you completely.”

Illumi slowly draws back, letting his arm fall limp at his side. He begins to walk toward the door, his hand turning the knob. He takes one last look at Hisoka and nods.

Hisoka watches the door close, and his body tears down. He tries to locate Illumi’s name on the roof of his mouth, on the keel of his elbows, on the backs of his knees, on every secret place Illumi has found in him. He searches for Illumi the way he’s blindly looked for someone who would never be found.

And that’s when Hisoka once again realizes that he can’t find someone who is already gone.

 

~***~

 

Hisoka spots Machi sitting on the kitchen stool, and immediately, his stomach lurches. There’s a fluttering feeling crumbling inside his chest. His knees go weak, his bones nearly giving in. And for the first time, he lets the warmth spread across the deep tombs of his body, letting Machi’s name reach his ribcage. For the first time, he doesn’t try to prevent it.

He slides his body easily on the edge of the countertop, grabbing Machi’s full attention. She focuses her frosty eyes on his like connective tissue; they won’t ever heal from each other no matter how soft they bruise. A strand of hair shields her gaze from view, and he flicks it to the back of her ear. He smiles at her, his chest yearning to press against her skin.

“I haven’t seen you in a week,” she says. “It’s like you just disappeared.”

“Were you worried?” Hisoka teases, letting out a laugh. “I was busy mending myself. I was hoping that you’d find me.”

“Have you . . .” Machi clears his throat, and Hisoka can hear the hesitation, feel it in his bones. “Is Illumi . . .?”

Hisoka feels a sharp twinge of pain root in his chest, the kind of lightning where it can strike down every living forest. But it quickly dissipates back into the soil of his skin, seeping out of his breath like a foggy release.

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Machi purses her lips, but even Hisoka can see a glimpse of a smile reach into her teeth. “I’m not a mind reader,” she says. She looks the other way, the skin of her cheeks twitching. She scowls when she sees the grin on his lips. “Why are you smiling like you’re keeping a secret?”

Hisoka lets a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “And wouldn’t you like to find out what that is?”

Machi gives him a measuring glance before she drifts her concentration back to the book she’s studying. Her hair is tied to a loose bun, the balled strands limping against the back of her head. Hisoka stares at the sweat forming on her neck, at the tiny grazes of hair curling against the nape. He draws in a rocky breath, trying to tell himself not to do it. But his hand reaches out for her, clasps at the damp portion of her neck.

He brings her face closer to his. “Let me drown in you,” Hisoka whispers, “one more time. Let me into your sea.”

Machi stares at him, her eyes suddenly guarded. “The last time you did that, you hurried to find a life raft. How sure am I that you won’t do it again?”

Hisoka doesn’t know how to answer, sure that he won’t be able to find the right words. But he attaches his lips to hers, forms secrets at the base of his throat to transfer. He patches himself against the perfect seams of her skin until their bodies are already too close to disconnect.

He lets himself drown in her, lets his heart absolutely sink into the most cordial trenches of her sea.

Hisoka falls for her, into her – and thinks, _this is what love is, entirely._

 

~***~

 

Professor Wing’s worse habit out of his entire career is not fixing the art room. Paint splatters are on the ground. Canvases are gathered in a messy heap. Paint cans, paint brushes, and palettes are fit in the trash bag. He reminds himself to take it out afterwards, and reminds himself again to buy another box for stock. The bright side is that the art room will finally be clean when New Year comes.

And then, the students will come trampling in with brand new messes.

After all, one already did.

Professor Wing was just about to lock the door when Hisoka came trotting in.

Now, as Professor Wing really looks at him, Hisoka’s cheeks are tinted with snow and dark smudges. His fingers are spread apart by pencils. There is a red smear on his neck, and what seems like a forming bruise appearing. Yet his fingers are still clawing across the page with gentle fingernails, the pencil stroking the paper with ease.

Professor Wing stares at him in disbelief.

“I know you love painting, Hisoka,” he says. “But it’s already past Christmas. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know.” Hisoka grins. “But I’m renewing my project.”

Wing steps back in surprise. When he let Hisoka inside, he didn’t think that this was the reason why. “But why? You’re already finished with it. You spent the entire semester darkening the theme.”

“I did,” Hisoka agrees. “But I’ve changed my mind. I want to make it lighter. I want to alter it, make something different.”

“Are you sure?” Wing scratches his jaw. “Your painting is already incredible. I’m asking the art director to put it into the museum.”

Hisoka shrugs. “Sure, that’s fine. But I still want to renew my project. I can finish it before the semester ends.”

Professor Wing closes his eyes, suddenly uncomfortable at the creased portion of his shirt. He smoothens them with his palm. “Why the change of mind?”

Hisoka smiles so gently that Wing’s chest submerges. This is not the student Wing has had since Hisoka’s freshman year. This is not the student Wing is used to. This is not the person Wing has grown to know.

“Well,” Hisoka says, his golden eyes illumined like the sharp strobe of the afternoon sun. “Maybe I’m just tired of painting ghosts now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the story, but there will still be the epilogue. 
> 
> I'm sure that the ending to this fic isn't exactly what you'd want or expect. But as a writer, I'm only doing what's best for the characters and for the story. I hope you understand. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this fic, I greatly appreciate all the comments and kudos given to me. I also loved all the asks I'd gotten from tumblr. To all the artists who created those beautiful images, and vividly presented my fic in your different art styles, I can't possibly thank you enough. I've saved each and every one of your pictures. The support you readers have given me - well, I wouldn't have finished this fic without you. 
> 
> Thank you. Please leave a comment or review. ~


	36. Epilogue

Epilogue

 

September 2014

 

 

There’s something melancholy about moving, Hisoka realizes, although he doesn’t think he’ll really miss anything.

Humidity hangs in the open windows of his apartment. The September sun is lingering on the windowsills, flooding the floorboards, draping itself across the ratty couch. Hisoka pulls a white cloth over the sofa, turning his face away when dust floats across the room. He wipes his nose with his sleeve before returning to the packages.

His things are fixed in boxes – his empty canvases are packed in a large container, his paint tools following the duct-taped wrappers. His clothes are neatly folded in one of his bags – courtesy of Machi, who knew that Hisoka would most likely ball his clothes together and push them all in. Now, his apartment lacks the belongings he’s grown used to. Now, as he looks around the room, he finds everything empty and numb, missing the ghosts who have grown in the peeks of his living room, the spaces of his bed.

Now, there’s nothing here but a ghost that has fully left.

Hisoka’s eyes dart to the cigarette pack on the table. He fishes it in his hand and checks the box. Two unused cigarette sticks are sitting in the nearly empty container. He glances at the door before he plucks one into his grasp. He turns the stick over, running his tongue over the neat line of his teeth. He hasn’t touched a cigarette in weeks. His teeth are aching, searching for the remnants of smoke and ashes. He feels his throat close up.

Hisoka breathes heavily, his chest expanding. He walks over to the trash bin and drops the box into the open lip. He watches the cigarette pack fall, waiting for his chest to take the hit. But the moment the cigarette stick slides out, he feels absolutely nothing. There is an easy feeling forming in the span of his ribcage, spreading across Machi’s permanent name.

When he presses his lips together to taste her teeth, he feels like he’s swallowing the first solace of spring.

Hisoka turns when the door opens, revealing Machi on the other side. As his eyes follow hers in a perfect orbit, he feels his stomach clench. His knuckles turn shaky, his knees become weak; every time he tries to say her name, he feels like there’s a brigade blocking his chest, making it nearly impossible for him to speak. Machi’s lips twitch into a smile, and Hisoka’s heart warms like a molten penny.

She steps in front of him. Her fingers round on the shape of his wrist. She greets him on tiptoe, plants a kiss on the curve of his mouth like a blossom. He sucks in a breath, his mind going blank just as Machi pulls away from him. Her breath falls on the lane of his bottom lip.

“So?” Machi prompts. “Are you ready?”

Hisoka grins and pulls her closer. Her hipbone meets his; their bodies connecting so naturally, their hearts can feel the alignment. “Ready for what?”

Machi rolls her eyes. “With everything, you dork. We still have to give Professor Wing your paintings.”

“Right, right.”

When Hisoka graduated, Professor Wing decided to ask Hisoka permission to present his paintings at the school museum. Hisoka was hesitant. Those paintings have been hanging in his art room for two years; he didn’t think he could easily give it away. He felt like there was a vacant dome in his chest that was about to fissure open, a space so empty that he’d find his entire body searching for that one piece. But as soon as he took one look at Machi, he knew that that wouldn’t be the case.

Maybe it was time to give his past away.

Machi narrows her eyes. “You’re not backing out, are you?”

“No,” Hisoka laughs out. “No, I’m not. It’s just . . .” He rakes his hand through the strands of his hair, tugging it upwards. He lowers his gaze, his eyes falling on Machi’s chest, where his heart gently lays. “It’s been so long. Three years since he saw those paintings.” He glances at Machi, hoping his eyes don’t look as vulnerable as he feels. Although, he knows that Machi could see right through him. “Do you think he still remembers them?”

Machi’s eyes stay awfully warm, the cool slush of her flecks melting on his cheeks. “I think that,” she says softly, “he’d love to stay in that memory.”

Hisoka looks at her before a smile breaks over his lips. “Yeah, you’re right.” He swerves toward the boxes, keeping Machi’s wrist in his hand; making sure that the next time he falls, he’ll know exactly where he’ll land.

 

~***~

 

The sun looks different today.

Coffee brew smokes up his nose, filling the tunnel of his throat. Illumi takes a slow sip of the latte, his tongue scorching at the sudden flood of liquid. He forces himself to swallow, dipping his head back to make sure the drops don’t dribble down his chin. The sunlight strokes the shape of his face. His eyelids stream with red, his lashes bordering the sifting light from his pupils.

Illumi finishes the cup as he returns to his car. He drops the container into the trashcan. His chest is corroding with so much heat, it feels like lava is forming. Something warm spreads across his ribcage, palming his bones until his stomach is thawing. He leans against the door of his car to catch his breath. His hand subconsciously travels to his chest, a name burning through the skin.

He finds himself looking at the sun, a face taking shape. He closes his eyes and lets his eyelids poach dry. When he looks back at the road, his eyes turn wide. There is a flash of red walking down the street, the man’s hair waving in different directions – crazy road maps turning into flesh. Illumi’s heart tumbles as he hurries past the crowd of people. He pushes through the sea of bodies until his hand clamps over the man’s shoulder.

He turns around, his golden eyes ramming through Illumi’s memory like a steam of hurricane, his bow curve mouth tattooed on Illumi’s lips, his warm skin seeping into Illumi’s palm, his face turning into a lullaby. Hisoka’s face becomes clear – a piano piece Illumi can memorize only with a stroke of sunlight.

Hisoka’s expression turns hazy with confusion before a grin appears on his face. Something inside Illumi trembles.

_Have you been thinking about me, or have you permanently burned me down from your memory?_

“Illumi,” Hisoka says, still smiling. “Hi.”

Illumi tries to make his throat work. “H-Hello.”

Hisoka laughs. “You sound really nervous. You okay?”

Illumi nods tightly. “Yes. Of course.”

“Good. That’s good. I didn’t expect to see you here,” Hisoka admits. “I haven’t seen you in school after the semester ended.”

“Oh, I transferred,” Illumi says. “I moved to the Liberty of Arts.”

Hisoka whistles softly. “I’m guessing you’re a music major now?”

“Yeah,” Illumi answers. “Piano.”

Hisoka laughs. “How did you convince your parents to transfer?”

Illumi shifts from one foot to another, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish flush. “I didn’t,” he breathes out. “I took the test without their knowledge. They knew too late. I transferred on my own terms.”

Hisoka’s golden eyes are gleaming with surprise. “And how did you find the courage to do that?”

Illumi’s throat thickens with the answer he’s been forming in the base of his throat. His chest wanes over, his bones rattling with unease. “Well,” he says, flushing, “I had you to show me.”

Illumi could memorize the number of beats Hisoka has taken before he answers, the number of seconds Illumi’s own heart has leapt into the other – but as he expected, Hisoka doesn’t bother to catch him. Illumi’s eyes trail down Hisoka’s chest, knowing fully well that Machi’s heart has taken Illumi’s place. Another lump shadows in his ribcage.

Before Hisoka can reply, Machi appears beside him. Her pink hair is tied into a loose ponytail, strands bordering her face. An uneasy smile trims over her lips, but Hisoka quickly slips his arm around her waist, as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking. Illumi has to force himself not to look away, but the realization dims his chest. This is what Hisoka and Illumi have always lacked before: no matter what Illumi did, he couldn’t fully connect to Hisoka’s body, as if there were a universe where only Machi could fit.

As he looks at them, he realizes that it’s already too late.

“Well,” Illumi says, smiling. “It was nice bumping into you. I hope I’ll see you again, Hisoka.”

Hisoka returns the grin. “I hope so, too, Illumi. I’ll see you whenever, yeah?”

Illumi presses his lips together and nods. “Yeah. See you.”

As Hisoka and Machi turn to leave, something unfurls inside him – a feeling so strong that it leaves him suffocated.

Illumi stretches his arm toward the span of Hisoka’s back, his fingers uncurling. But Hisoka’s gaze stays focused on Machi, a bridge lined in between their bodies.

That was a connection, a fall-out Hisoka has always refused to give to him.

All this time, Hisoka has been falling – but he never wanted Illumi to catch him.

 

~***~

 

_He saw the sun up close that day, but like light, it was never meant to stay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Cigarette Teeth has officially ended, and I'm pretty sure some people either hate me or this fic, or maybe even both. Please leave a comment or review. Thank you. ~


End file.
